


Two Of A Kind

by Snafu1000



Series: 'Moments In Time' Universe [3]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 18:02:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 44,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snafu1000/pseuds/Snafu1000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pirate meets her match in a Fereldan rogue, but what starts out as simple becomes anything but. FemHawke/Isabela</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Simple

**Author's Note:**

> Standard Disclaimer: Devon Hawke and anything else you don't recognize are mine; everything else belongs to Bioware.
> 
> The story does take place in the Moments In Time universe, and the two storylines will be intersecting eventually, but it's going to be a while.

Looking back, she was never certain how it happened, or even exactly when.

Certainly, it began in the Hanged Man, all those years ago. She'd been looking for someone to watch her back when she confronted Hayder, and when Varric had strolled in with the three Fereldans in tow, it seemed as though her luck might be changing at last. Isabela didn't share the antipathy that most of Kirkwall displayed to the refugees from the south, but by and large, she had to admit they were a rather sorry lot: sheep waiting to be sheared.

The charm that Varric was oozing made it clear that there was something different about this bunch, however; their leader, in particular. She moved with the easy grace of a cat in response to the pirate's beckoning gesture, expending no more effort than absolutely necessary, but a wealth of energy coiled beneath the surface, ready to be unleashed at need.

Eyes the shifting blue-green of the sea gleamed with a lazy interest from beneath tousled blonde hair as Isabela explained the situation. "How much are you offering?"

"My undying gratitude and two sovereigns." A smirk to indicate that this was merely the opening gambit.

The woman chuckled. "Gratitude doesn't pay the bills. Add eight more sovereigns and you've got your backup."

Isabela feigned shock. "Ten? That's highway robbery! Four."

"Eight," the Ferelden countered calmly.

"I couldn't possibly manage more than five."

"Let's make it six, then. Half up front."

"Six it is," Isabela agreed, knowing that ten would have been the low end, if she'd sought out hired muscle in the usual places. "You're a girl after my own heart," she added, giving the newcomer a boldly appraising look as she passed over the three sovereigns. Slightly shorter than Isabella and compactly built, the Fereldan carried herself with a confidence just shy of cocky, and yes - the pirate confirmed as she turned to pass the coins to the dark-haired girl with her - she had quite the nice ass.

"Because I won't let myself get screwed?" the blonde inquired, looking amused...and returning Isabela's measuring stare just as boldly.

"Now, _that_ would be a damn shame," Isabela quipped with a wink, watching the big girl with the shield roll her eyes in disgust and the dark-haired one look confused, then scandalized. The blonde just laughed again, a merry sound, accompanied by a dare-me grin. "Business first, however, and I like seeing a woman who knows her own worth."

"My da taught me to bargain," the other woman said with a shrug, her smile fading slightly. "Devon Hawke," she went on, offering her hand and inclining her head toward her companions. "My sister, Bethany, Aveline Vallen, and -"

"Oh, she knows me, Hawke," Varric cut her off, giving the pirate a lopsided grin, "don't you, Rivaini?"

"Owner of the most glorious chest hair in the Free Marches?" She pretended to swoon. "I dream of running my fingers through it every night. Or at least, I would if I slept at night, instead of -"

"Is this duel of yours taking place today?" the tall redhead cut her off pointedly.

"After sunset, Big Girl," Isabela assured her. "Just meet me at the gates to Hightown, and we'll go from there." That one stood like she had a stick up her ass; twisting it a bit ought to be fun.

"Devon, are you sure about this?" The younger girl, Bethany, glanced around nervously.

"It's all right, Beth," the blonde's voice grew noticeably gentler when she turned to reply to her sister, her eyes darkening with the promise of a storm when she caught a drunken patron ogling the girl's backside. Her hand dropped to one of the daggers sheathed at each hip, and the drunk promptly found something of interest in his half empty mug. "If Varric's willing to speak for her, I think we can trust her."

She returned her gaze to the pirate, the warning in her eyes as clear as the challenge.

Isabela chuckled. "Either you don't know Varric, or he doesn't know me. You don't trust _anybody_ in the Hanged Man, sweet thing, not unless you know they've got a good reason not to betray you. I just happen to have the best reason of all: I need you watching my ass."

"Sounds like a nice enough job," Hawke countered, "but wouldn't it be more effective if I guarded it?"

The delivery was so utterly deadpan that it took Isabela a moment to catch it, then her lips curled in a predator's delighted smile. "Oh, we're going to get along nicely," she purred. "In fact, if you don't have anything planned until sunset -"

"We do," Aveline cut her off with a glare.

Hawke gave the pirate a shrug and an easy grin. "She's right. Another time," she tossed over her shoulder as she sauntered toward the door, even Varric trailing in her wake.

_Interesting._

They showed up in Hightown on schedule, dealing with the ambush by Hayder's lackeys and the discovery that the spineless bastard had holed up in the Chantry with relatively good grace.

A bit of a surprise to discover that little Bethany was an apostate mage, and a damn good apostate mage, at that. She and Devon worked together almost seamlessly, the blonde leading her opponents right into fireballs or shattering the ones that were frozen solid with spinning back-kicks. Hawke fought like a cat, as well, all traces of laziness gone: quick and deadly with her daggers, moving with a fluid agility that made Isabela itch to shrug off the duel and drag the other woman back to her room at the Hanged Man to see if she was as nimble between the sheets.

_Business first...damn it._

The big girl was a one-woman wall behind her shield, the strength of her sword arm suggesting that she should be able to knock a man into submission, should attempts at seduction fail. And Varric was as reliable as always with Bianca, sending bolts into the fray with deadly precision while humming that odd little tune under his breath.

"Don't worry, sweetness," she assured Bethany as she saw the mage watching her apprehensively as they stripped the corpses of anything worthwhile...which wasn't much. "I'm not on speaking terms with the Chantry or the templars."

"Imagine that," Aveline muttered from her post near the stairs.

"And I wouldn't turn you in if I were," the pirate continued, flashing a wicked grin at the big girl.

"Good to know," Devon remarked, her tone light but the warning back in her eyes. Like the sea, the dominant color seemed to change with the light; here in the shadows, they seemed more blue than green. "We get extra for the ambush, I assume?"

Damn, but she was a bold one! "You can keep anything that Hayder has on him," Isabela promised, "and I can guarantee you there'll be something worth keeping." Castillon's errand boy was fond of the better things in life.

"Fair enough," the blonde conceded, "as long as you make it up to us if there's not."

"I may do that anyway, sweet thing," the pirate replied suggestively, earning another of those delightful dare-me grins, sparks crackling between them as their eyes met and held.

Aveline cleared her throat. "If we're going to violate the sanctity of the Chantry, could we get to it before sunrise?"

"Hayder's the one who violated it, Av," Devon countered, breaking eye contact to wipe her daggers clean and return them to their sheaths. "We're just cleaning house."

And clean house they had. Hayder had no intention of a one-on-one fight - no great surprise there - but his attempt to bribe Hawke into changing employers was met with a scornful laugh and a slim throwing knife that spun, seemingly out of thin air, straight at his throat, scoring a thin line as he ducked to the side.

The fight was on, Hawke and the other three keeping Hayder's lackeys busy as he and Isabela weaved around each other, blades flashing. He was good; there was no denying that, but she was better, and it was only a matter of time before he overreached, giving her the opening to sweep her knife across his throat.

Even as he collapsed to the floor in a gout of blood, she felt the movement behind her and spun, knowing that she wasn't going to be able to get around fast enough -

Hayder's second stood on tiptoe, back arched, eyes bulging and mouth working in a silent rictus of agony that broke into a strangled wail as Hawke gave her daggers a savage twist and yanked them free from his kidneys, letting him fall, then bending to cut his throat with businesslike efficiency.

"Not squeamish, I see," the pirate quipped.

"Lucky for you," Devon shot back in the same vein, glancing around to be sure that none of her companions had been injured before moving to Hayder's corpse and stripping it clean of valuables as neatly as she slit throats.

"He called that one 'Bodice Ripper'," Isabela informed Hawke with a twinge of envy as she examined the gleaming dagger with approval. She should have made the blade the exception on the loot, damn it. On the other hand, she could just as easily have been the one lying on the floor with her kidneys skewered, so she supposed it had been well earned.

"Did he, now?" Hawke's eyes cut towards the pirate, a sly smile touching her lips. The dagger flashed in the moonlight as she twirled it briefly, then slipped it under her belt in a smooth motion.

"Showoff," Bethany accused her with a sniff.

"When have I not been, little sister?" Devon asked, the smile broadening to a grin as she tossed her Hayder's belt pouch. Neither Aveline nor Varric objected, so Isabela assumed they'd divvy up the takings later. "What was the relic he was talking about?"

The sudden change of subject didn't quite catch Isabela off guard, but she had to admit, the girl was good. She'd given no sign that she had even heard Hayder's comment at the time it was made. "Just a piece of crap that I was stupid enough to lose," she replied easily. It was the truth after all, wasn't it? "Hayder being dead buys me some time, but if I want Castillon off my back, I'm going to have to find it."

She cocked her head. "Maybe we could trade favors?" she suggested, her voice laden with double meaning. "I scratch your back, you scratch mine?"

Hawke pursed her lips thoughtfully, but her eyes danced with amusement...and something quite a bit more interesting. "That could be advantageous," she replied at last. "We should probably negotiate some terms, though."

"Oh, absolutely," Isabela agreed with a seductive smile. "If you'd like to come back to the Hanged Man with me, we could get right to it."

"Oh, for the love of the Maker!" Bethany sounded exasperated, but hardly surprised.

Hawke chuckled, placing an affectionate kiss on her sister's forehead. "Trust me, Beth. I know what I'm doing," she promised. Her eyes shifted to Varric, who wore his usual look of utter unflappability, in contrast to the scowl of profound disapproval on Aveline's face. "See my sister home safely, please," she requested of the dwarf, who nodded his assent. "I've got some business to see to."

Ignoring the big girl's snort of disbelief, she turned and sauntered toward Isabela, her fingers dropping to the hilt of Bodice Ripper as she added, in a voice that was for the pirate alone, "And a new blade that I should try out."

That was how it began. Nice and simple. But it didn't stay that way.


	2. Hijinks In Lowtown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apart from Varric, the men of DA2 won't be appearing too often. I opted to exclude Sebastian altogether, since his content really wasn't needed for the main storyline & would have just added another character to keep up with. I have yet to understand the fuss about Fenris, and Devon is not the type to suffer a mage-hater in silence. Anders...well, he's obviously needed for the plot, but again, I found it difficult to connect with him through Devon:
> 
> Devon: You're a nice guy, Anders
> 
> Anders: Don't! You're going to regret falling in love with me!
> 
> Devon: Huh? I just said -
> 
> Anders: I mean it! You shouldn't love me, but...but I can't stop thinking about you!
> 
> Devon: Ummm...I've been here like...twice? We barely -
> 
> Anders: You should just...go now! No! Please stay! I need you-
> 
> Justice: She is distracting you from our task!
> 
> Devon: Oh, fuck this! *Goes in search of Isabela*
> 
> Actually, I have yet to create a character that doesn't want to shank him after he lies to you and plunges the entire known world into war by blowing up the Chantry. So yeah, my default party with Devon was Aveline, Isabela & either Bethany or Merrill. I only brought Anders along when I knew I'd need major healing, and Varric for the commentary. Besides, it was the banter between the girls (and Varric) that was the most fun.

* * *

 

Isabela sauntered through Lowtown with deceptive casualness, eyes and ears always alert for any who might be thinking of relieving her of her purse or her life (her virtue being long gone already and thus one less thing to guard). Fortunately, the wolves of Kirkwall preferred to avoid other wolves, and in the six months since that damned shipwreck had stranded her here, she had made quite certain to establish a reputation as a wolf. Still, while there was no indication that Castillon had sent anyone else after her, there was no sense in taking chances.

Whores, pickpockets, muggers and worse lined the filthy streets, plying their various trades without a guardsman in sight, and the pirate loved it: the chaos; the raw vitality of a place where every life, including her own, was balanced on a razor's edge; the need for constant vigilance that kept every one of her senses alert and gloriously _alive_.

Mind you, the architecture did leave something to be desired. Leaky roofs and doors that barely held to hinges were one thing, but the hovel that Hawke's uncle called home was so damn small that Devon, her sister and mother shared a single tiny room for sleeping, which put a serious damper on sex in Chateau Hawke (or Chateau Amell, she supposed was the correct name for it, since Leandra's brother owned it).

Not that sex was the reason she was bound there now. She hadn't been thinking entirely in carnal terms when she had spoken of trading favors, and things had worked out quite nicely both in and out of the bedroom. Hawke had very nearly raised the gold needed to join Varric and his prick of a brother in their Deep Roads expedition (a venture that the pirate was still undecided about; Devon had invited her, but while 'filthy rich' had a certain appeal, the thought of weeks spent in dark, close tunnels, unable to see what might be closing in on her made her skin clammy).

While Isabela was no closer to the damned relic, she'd managed to establish a network of contacts within Kirkwall that had allowed her to resume her smuggling business on a scale that at least bought her room, board and whiskey, along with a small but slowly growing stash of sovereigns that might one day turn into the Wicked Grace: a three-masted galleon that would cut through the waves like a blade, returning her to the sea and true freedom.

Devon had helped her - in return for a share of the coin, of course. The Fereldan was refreshingly practical; the fact that she and Isabela spent a couple of nights a week shagging each other senseless didn't affect the professional aspect of their relationship, and the rogue was one of the few bedmates the pirate had encountered who was as much fun out of the sack as in it.

Not that either of them were exclusive by any means; they discovered that they shared much the same tastes in both women and men, and quite a bit of coin had changed hands as they made bets on who would be the first to bed a particularly appealing target. By Isabela's calculations, they were roughly even. Devon Hawke did not have the lush curves that were the pirate's most formidable non-edged weapons, but she was good looking in a Fereldan sort of way: blonde hair, fair skin and those incredible, deep-ocean eyes, along with her air of lazy confidence, won her a fair share of their wagers.

She was, however, the lover that Isabela took to her bed (or chair, table, floor or wall) the most often, and the only one of her lovers that she routinely sought out for reasons besides sex. The reason was easy enough to name: Hawke despised boredom as much as the pirate did, and whether taking a tumble between the sheets, sneaking a shipment of lyrium past customs or fighting off yet another attack by the Coterie thugs, she had _fun_ with it.

Which was why it piqued Isabela's curiosity, as she reached the top of the flight of stairs that led to the Amell family hovel, to hear Hawke's voice raised in rare anger on the other side of the door. The second agitated voice was just as easily identified, and answered the question almost before it was asked; if there was one person in Kirkwall who could be counted on to piss Devon off, it was her uncle.

The pirate hesitated for all of two seconds before picking the lock on the door and slipping inside (and really, it was such a flimsy excuse for a lock that it shouldn't count as anything more serious than entering without knocking). Falcon, Devon's drooling monster of a mabari, turned his head briefly to acknowledge her presence, his stubby tail bobbing up and down once in greeting before his deepset eyes shifted back to where Hawke had Gamlen backed up to a wall, a dagger at his throat.

There was no sign of Leandra. No great surprise; the Hawke matriarch kept the uneasy peace in the household when she was present. Devon obeyed out of love and respect for her mother, and Gamlen because he was too craven to do otherwise. When she was gone, however, tensions sometimes got out of control, though never quite this far.

"Is this a bad time?" she quipped, keeping her voice light. Bethany, who stood by looking torn between anger and worry, gave Isabela a grateful glance, but Gamlen's face was full of fear and venom, his voice shrill as he tried to press himself even deeper into the splinter-laden boards of the wall to escape the edge of Devon's blade.

"Skulking in here like you own the place!" he spat. "I ought to throw the lot of you out!"

"And I ought to kill you." Hawke had regained whatever control over her emotions she had lost; her voice was calm and level, almost casual, if one overlooked eyes that were as cold as the Frozen Sea. "Probably just as well that neither of us is the type to act rashly, isn't it?"

It was no idle threat; Devon would kill him without thinking twice, and Gamlen Amell knew it. Isabela wondered how it felt to know that you were alive only through the intervention of the sister whose sizable inheritance you had stolen and squandered. From the look in his rodent-eyed face, it wasn't a fun feeling.

"All right, all right!" He held up his hands in surrender. "I'm sorry!" This last was directed to Bethany, who accepted the apology with a terse nod. "I didn't mean any harm; you're family, after all. I got you into Kirkwall, didn't I?" The sudden wheedling note didn't win him any points.

"You exhausted that particular favor a long time ago," Hawke informed him flatly, "especially since you used our service to pay off your own debts to the Red Iron." She stepped back, wiping the dagger on the leg of her trews as though cleaning off something unpleasant and returning it smoothly to its sheath. "Now, you probably ought to get your ass out and look for a job, if you're planning any more trips to the Rose."

His face flushed an ugly shade of red, but he knew better than to reply. Mustering what little semblance of dignity he had, he edged around the tiny room, his eyes not leaving Hawke until he was stepping through the door.

"Well, I'm not sure I can top that, in terms of entertainment," Isabela observed, settling cautiously into a chair, waiting to see if it would hold before entrusting it with her full weight. At least it was clean, thanks to Leandra's efforts; Devon said the place had been a pigsty when they'd first arrived.

"Got a job?" Hawke asked, her anger still evident in the set of her jaw and the taut lines of her body.

"An opportunity," the pirate replied, "but one with the potential for a good profit."

The rogue nodded, lifting her leather jerkin from the nail in the wall and shrugging into it. "Sounds good. Beth -"

"I know," Bethany sighed. "Stay here and wait for Mother."

"Good girl." Hawke was more than willing to engage in shady activities to bring in the money to take care of her family, but she kept her younger sister out of such excursions. "You too," she added as Falcon bounded to his feet. "I want you here in case dear Uncle comes back." The mabari sat back down with a dejected whine and she crouched before him, looking into his eyes.

"You can't bite him," she told the dog, "but he doesn't have to know that." Falcon uttered a chuffing sound that sounded amazingly like laughter and settled to the floor at Bethany's feet.

"I'm not sure why you even bother with that crappy lock when he's there," Isabela remarked as they left. Any halfassed burglar could get in, but there was not a power in Thedas that would get him back out again.

Devon shrugged. "Just figured I'd give the thieves a sporting chance." She was in control, but her anger still simmered beneath the surface, giving a predator's edge to the natural agility that never failed to fascinate the pirate. "Where to?" Her fingers danced restlessly along the hilts of her daggers, eager for an outlet for her emotions.

"The Hanged Man," Isabela replied, adding as the Fereldan arched a questioning brow, "Martin has a room there. We'll need to talk to him about what he wants and what he's offering. All I know is that it's got something to do with missing merchandise."

"And Martin is?" Hawke was visibly disappointed that a fight was evidently not imminent, but she set off in the direction of the tavern at a brisk walk.

"A Chantry brother down on his luck and working as a prostitute," the pirate said dryly, catching up with the blonde. "He's a friend of mine and he's staying in the Hanged Man, Hawke; what do you think he is?"

"I liked the Chantry brother story." Devon gave her a sideways glance, amusement dancing around the edges of the lingering anger.

Isabela laughed. "It would be entertaining, wouldn't it?" She followed as Hawke turned down an alley; only an idiot used the same route every time, and between them, they knew at least half a dozen paths to just about any destination in Kirkwall.

Nor was she particularly surprised when, as soon as they had passed into concealing shadow, Hawke spun and pressed her against the brick wall, claiming her lips in a hungry kiss. She gave an approving growl, letting the shorter woman maintain dominance for several heated moments before reversing their positions with an adroit twist. She knew what Hawke sought, what she needed, and she gave it: the kiss was all fire, tongues twining, hands roaming at will, the heat of passion overwhelming the anger, consuming it and at last burning it to char and scattering it to the winds.

"You'd better be planning on finishing this later," she warned Devon as they drew apart, arousal thrumming pleasantly through her

"Oh, I will." The grin that the rogue shot her was genuine, the anger gone. "But I needed that now. Thanks." A final nibble on her lower lip, hands sliding briefly over her ass, and Hawke stepped away.

"Don't thank me." Isabela gave her a sly look. "I may just have to pay Gamlen to get you mad more often."

Devon snorted. "He's not likely to survive another occurrence. I caught him trying to peep at Bethany while she was getting dressed."

The pirate gave a low whistle. "I knew he was that sleazy, but I had no idea he was that stupid." The most thick-skulled thug in Darktown knew that the fastest way to a sure death was to lay hands on Devon Hawke's sister.

"He's both," Hawke said with a sour expression, "and the sooner that I can get Mother and Bethany out of that shithole, the better, so lets go see what this Martin is willing to pay for our unique talents."

That was the real difference between them: Isabela took care of herself, first and foremost, and was not the least bit ashamed of that fact, while Devon's primary motivation, besides keeping herself entertained, was providing for her family. She'd picked up her shadier skills after her father had died, leaving her the primary breadwinner and protector at the tender age of sixteen.

_"She blames herself for Carver getting killed," Bethany had told the pirate once, her hazel eyes watching her sister walking ahead of the rest with the usual blend of affection and worry, "but it wasn't her fault. She was always trying to teach him to control himself, but he never wanted to listen. They fought all the time, but they did love each other. That's why she's so protective of me, I suppose."_

_"You're worth protecting, sweetness," Isabela had assured her. There was an innocence about her, in spite of the formidable power that she wielded, but there was a quiet strength there, as well; something that Hawke depended on._

_"But who protects Devon?" Bethany asked sadly._

"What about you?" she asked now as they started walking again. "You're planning on leaving the shithole too, aren't you?"

Hawke flashed that dare-me grin at her. "I thought I might stay on, just to piss him off. I've had him by the balls ever since we found that will." Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she added, "I just have to decide when to squeeze."

"Remind me not to get on your bad side," the pirate murmured.

The grin shifted to a smirk. "You've been on pretty much every other side I've got."

Isabela had to chuckle. "True enough, though I don't recall hearing anyone saying that your bad side is a fun place to be." She paused, then snorted. "That might be because I don't actually recall anyone surviving being on your bad side." Hawke was generally easygoing, but she did not take kindly to being fucked with, and she was utterly ruthless when it came to protecting the oddball assortment of companions that she had gathered around her.

"Not much sense in leaving a live enemy behind you," the rogue replied with a shrug. "Especially when you keep company with apostates who would prefer to remain unidentified. Speaking of which, should we see if Merrill's available before or after we talk with Martin?"

"After." No mention of Anders. While Hawke liked the man and sympathized with his desire for mages to live free of the Chantry's control, she was keeping a bit of distance after he had tried to kiss her unexpectedly a couple of weeks earlier. Isabela couldn't blame her; the Grey Warden mage was tasty looking, but his intensity virtually screamed 'lifelong commitment required', something that the freewheeling rogue had no interest in whatsoever. "Varric or Fenris?"

"Varric." Hawke's answer came without hesitation, and needed no real explanation. The alliance with the elf was tenuous, at best; listening to he and Anders snipe at each other was bad enough, but when he turned his hatred of mages on Bethany or Merrill, Hawke's fingers visibly twitched toward her daggers. "He's likely already at the Hanged Man, anyway."

Less than an hour later, they were bound for the docks with Varric and Merrill in tow. As always, the smell of salt air and the sight of sails billowing in the wind triggered a mix of longing and frustrated anger. The Siren's Call hadn't been the biggest ship on the seas, but she'd been fast, and she'd been hers. Damn that storm and the rocks, anyway. And the qunari...and Castillon, while she was at it.

"You miss it, don't you?" Merrill asked. "Being on the ocean, I mean." Then, Merrill being Merrill, she immediately began apologizing. "I'm sorry. I know it's none of my business, but you just seem so sad when you look at the ships. You look the way I feel when I think of the forest."

"You've nothing to be sorry for, Kitten," Isabela assured her, and likely would have done so even if her comment had been a gross insult. The elf's innocence, and her painfully obvious loneliness, made it all but impossible to take offense at her attempts at learning about a world utterly alien to her. "I do miss it. The salt spray on my face, the wind whipping by my ears, the gulls screaming overhead—I love it all."

"Then why stay on land? You're a good sailor, I bet." Merrill turned to stare at the ships that crowded the harbor. "I would think that any captain would like to have someone like you on their staff."

"Crew, Kitten," Isabela corrected her, catching Hawke glancing back with a faint smile. She was almost as fond of the elf as the pirate was. "Those who work on board a ship are called the crew."

"And the Rivaini's not one to be part of a crew, Daisy," Varric put in. "For her, it's captain or nothing."

Merrill's brow creased in puzzlement. "But...you work for Hawke sometimes, don't you? Is that different?"

"With, Merrill. Not for." The tone that Hawke used with the elf was similar to the one she reserved for Bethany: gentle and patient. "We're business partners, I guess you could say. Like me and Varric."

"Oh." The creases deepened. "Is the sex part of the business, then? I didn't think you had sex with Varric - oh, I said something wrong, didn't I?"

"No, Kitten," Isabela replied, as Hawke and Varric were currently leaning against each other and laughing their asses off. "That's more of a 'friends with benefits' arrangement; we get together, we have fun, and then we go take care of business."

"Oh." A little frown graced the elf's cute face as she looked questioningly at the pirate. "That makes sense, I suppose. It might get awkward if the sex came during the business, mightn't it?"

"That it might," Isabela agreed solemnly, not needing to look toward Hawke to see the wicked gleam in her eyes, reminding her of a second story job they'd undertaken a few weeks back to retrieve some documents of interest that a Hightown merchant wanted to obtain from a rival. Said rival had been absent, but his very large, very luxurious featherbed had been entirely too tempting (not to mention the added thrill of pulling their clothes on, straightening the bed and ducking out the window, documents in hand, while the owner of the house was ascending the stairs).

A few careful questions soon had them outside the warehouse where Martin's goods were likely stashed, and a bit of smoke provided by Merrill sent the guards outside racing off to fight the 'fire', leaving the door unguarded.

"These are the marks he described," Devon murmured, crouching beside a pair of crates stamped with Orlesian customs markings. Lifting the lid, she drew out one of the metal vials within and glanced up at Isabela with raised eyebrows. "Crow venom," she remarked, rolling the vial in her fingers thoughtfully. "I didn't think the Crows sold their poisons."

"They don't," the pirate confirmed. "And I don't think they'd be too pleased to find out this much of it has gotten away from them."

"There's also the fact that it's illegal in Kirkwall," Varric commented, looking none too concerned about said fact, though there was illegal, and then there was _illegal_. One of the more potent poisons in Thedas definitely fell into the latter category.

"None of which Martin saw fit to mention." Devon pulled a second vial from the crate and slipped both into the pouch at her hip before closing the lid and standing. "Which means we'll be renegotiating our price before we tell him where it is. Now, let's get out of here before those goons figure out there's no fire under that smoke we had them chasing."

"No fire?" Merrill looked quizzically at Hawke. "You didn't say that you didn't want fire; you just said that you needed smoke to distract them."

"The 'no fire' part was implied," Devon answered, looking worried. "So, you're saying that you -"

"You can't have smoke without a fire," the mage explained earnestly, "and besides, it didn't seem fair to lie to them."

"But setting the Docks on fire is fair?" Varric shook his head slowly. "Daisy, we need to have a talk about priorities."

"Was it a bad idea?" The elf looked distressed. "I just thought that with all the water out there, it couldn't go too far..."

"It'll stop at the water, Kitten," Isabela told her, "but there's not much in the other direction besides warehouses and Lowtown." Most of which was constructed from scavenged wood that was as dry as tinder in the summer heat.

"Oh...oh, dear," Merrill murmured. "I didn't think of that." Drawing her knife from its sheath at her hip, she sliced the blade along her forearm, the blood beading at the line of the shallow cut and rising into a fine mist that dispersed as she drew upon the power that it supplied. Her large green eyes remained unfocused for several moments before she blinked and smiled in satisfaction. "There; it's out now."

Isabela exchanged a cautious glance with Hawke. "Just like that?" The ease with which the elf manipulated the magic in her blood was impressive, though combined with her naivety, it was frequently unnerving, as well.

Merrill nodded confidently. "Oh, yes. It hadn't grown very large, so I just pulled all the air away from it. Fire needs air to survive, just like we do. Did you know that?"

"No, I didn't." The immediate crisis past, Hawke could only shake her head in amused resignation. "Mother always says it's a wasted day when you don't learn something new, so I guess that's mine for today."

They exited the warehouse as silently and easily as they had entered, keeping to the shadows that were deepening steadily with the setting sun. Despite her innate elvish grace, Merrill wasn't as skilled at sneaking as the other three. Varric and Hawke were focused on teaching her, so only Isabela caught the familiar flash of ginger hair and the gleam of heavy armor in the light of the torches and oil lamps as they entered the Lowtown slums.

"Where do you think Man-hands is going?" she asked, nodding toward Aveline's rapidly dwindling back. The big girl hadn't noticed them, and she was moving with the purposeful stride of a woman on a mission.

Hawke frowned slightly. "No idea. I haven't seen much of her since I turned down her offer to join the Guard." Perhaps only Bethany would have noticed the subtle change in her tone, the suddenly guarded look on her face. Isabela noticed such things because, when you lived by your wits, the smallest detail could make the difference between life and death. It still didn't quell the urge to give Aveline a swift kick in the ass, however.

"Is she angry with you, then?" Merrill asked, looking worried at the prospect, tenderhearted dear that she was.

"Angry?" Hawke shook her head and shrugged. "No. More like disappointed, I think, but I'd never get Mother and Bethany out of Gamlen's house on a guard's pay."

And she wouldn't risk compromising Aveline by accepting the job and doing some shady work on the side to supplement her income. Isabela wondered if Lady Man-hands had ever given that any consideration while she was polishing her pauldrons.

"Let's follow her," Devon decided suddenly. "We'll stay out of sight; it's probably nothing, anyway." Her eyes told differently; Devon Hawke had a nose for trouble that rivaled Isabela's, and the pirate's instincts were warning her that things were likely to get interesting in the next few minutes.

They moved swiftly through the darkening streets, but soon found themselves faced with branching paths and no indication which of the three routes Aveline had taken.

"All right, we're going to have to split up," Hawke muttered, looking none too pleased at the prospect. "Bela, you and Merrill check out the alienage, Varric and I will look around the Hanged Man -"

Scarcely had the words left her mouth when the faint sounds of combat rose above the sounds of the wind and waves: the ring of steel on steel, muffled shouts, and then Aveline's voice cleaving through the night like a sword.

"You will not have him!"

The effect on Hawke was galvanizing, her features settling into something almost feral, eyes suddenly ablaze. "Everybody move!" she snapped, already in motion, racing in the direction of the fighting, melting into the shadows without looking behind to see if they were following.

"Shit!" Isabela muttered, breaking into a run and unsheathing her daggers. "Get ready to dance, people!"

"Dance?" Merrill kept pace easily, her features a play of curiosity and worry. "Oh, you mean to fight, don't you? Is it Aveline in trouble?"

"Sounds like it, Daisy." Varric had Bianca in his hands, one bolt already nocked and a second drawn.

They wound through the narrow streets, deeper and deeper into Lowtown, the lack of even the usual nighttime skulkers proclaiming as loudly as any herald that something was afoot. What that 'something' was quickly made itself clear as they rounded a corner and came upon Aveline surrounded by at least a dozen opponents. The warrior stood protectively over the crumpled body of a man wearing the livery of the Kirkwall Guard, and the handful of corpses littering the cobblestones proof that her blade had not been idle. As good as the big girl was (and she was damn good, though Isabela had never felt the need to mention it), she couldn't defend all sides indefinitely...nor did she have to.

The flash and detonation of a concussion grenade announced Hawke's arrival; with the thugs briefly disoriented by the light, explosion and smoke, the rogue swooped from the shadows like her namesake. As always, she wore only the lightest leather armor to maximize her mobility, but concealed in various sheaths, pockets and pouches were enough weapons to arm - or decimate - a small regiment: daggers and garrottes, stilettos and throwing knives, grenades and poisons, and she was proficient with them all.

By the time the thugs had recovered, Hawke had slashed the throats of two in passing and hamstrung a third, taking up a position at Aveline's back, allowing the guard to assume the defensive position that made her damn near untouchable from the front and sides, trusting her fellow Fereldan to cover her blind spots.

If she was surprised by the appearance of the others, she didn't show it. "I need one of them alive!" she barked out, parrying a dagger and slicing the man wielding it from chin to groin, sending his guts spilling to the street in glistening, purplish loops. Obviously, it wasn't going to be that one.

_Do it yourself, bitch,_ Isabela thought irritably, darting into the fray to finish off the one Hawke had crippled. She'd come out here alone, even though she was clearly expecting trouble, which in the pirate's opinion meant that she deserved the thrashing that her stupidity had earned her, but Isabela already knew that Devon was not about to let that happen. Even as she fought, Hawke's eyes flickered from one thug to another, quickly zeroing in on one whose armor was of noticeably better quality than the rest. Quick as thought, her hand dipped into a pocket, emerging with a small glass sphere that she hurled to the ground, sending up a thick plume of smoke that provided both distraction and concealment. In the next instant, she spun out of the smoke at her chosen target.

"Varric!" A back kick from the rogue sent the bandit flying backward out of the fray, slamming into a stack of crates. The dwarf pivoted, loosing a bolt that pierced the man's shoulder and drove deep into the wood behind, pinning him in place. For good measure, vines sprouted from the dry boards, twining tightly about his arms and legs.

Merrill quickly sheathed her dagger, her blood still flowing freely as she turned back to the fight. The stammering, uncertain girl was gone; her left hand held her staff, while the right stretched forward, green eyes narrowing in concentration and lips moving. Two of Aveline's attackers dropped their weapons, tumbling to the ground and clutching their bellies in agony; Isabela wasted no time in taking advantage of their condition, ending the life of each with a dagger slipped neatly between ribs and through the heart.

As the last one fell, Aveline dropped to her knees beside the fallen guardsman, her face taut with fear. "Donnic?"

The man groaned and pushed himself to a sitting position, fingers probing gingerly at a goose egg over his left ear. "Aveline?" Brown eyes focused blearily upon the woman before him, a wondering smile touching his lips. "You're a beautiful sight!"

If Aveline had realized that Isabela could see her face at that moment, she'd likely have tried to run the pirate through. As it was, only the sharp jab of Hawke's elbow into her ribs kept her from crowing at the sudden look of flustered pleasure that washed away the usual stern expression. Maker's balls, but Lady Man-hands was _blushing_!

As if suddenly realizing some impropriety, Donnic forced himself to his feet. "I mean, Lieutenant...I don't know what happened. They came out of nowhere; I took down a few, but there were too many of them." He dropped his eyes in shame at this admission, but Aveline grasped his shoulder firmly, evidently finally remembering that she was supposed to be the perfect soldier: all duty, no sex.

"It's all right, guardsman; this patrol route is supposed to be an uneventful one."

"All the same, sending a single man patrol into Lowtown seems foolish at best," Hawke remarked, crouching to examine the leather pouch bearing the seal of the guard. "In case you're wondering, I'm not regretting not signing up."

"I'm not wondering," Aveline sighed. "And lone patrols are not the norm. Guardsman Brennan was supposed to accompany Guardsman Donnic, but Captain Jeven pulled her off at the last minute with the halfassed excuse that she was needed in Hightown. We've lost two other guards on solo patrols in the last two months, so she came to me with her concerns."

"And you just came tearing down here alone?" Hawke demanded irritably. "Are you out of your damned mind?"

"Ah...Varric, why don't you accompany the good Guardsman to the Hanged Man and set him up with a drink?" Isabela suggested brightly as Aveline's cheeks flushed a shade of red that had nothing to do with pleasure. "I think he's earned it. Tell Corff to put it on my tab."

After they had left, Donnic leaning a bit on the dwarf for support, she turned back, seeing no further reason to suppress the smirk that had been trying to take over her face. "Looks like you've finally got a chance to get laid, Guardsman Aveline. I'll even let you use my room, if you like. Don't forget to let him be on top occasionally, though; men like that."

Only Hawke's position in between kept Aveline from flying at her. "Keep your lewd thoughts to yourself, harlot!" the guard grated out between clenched teeth.

"Ooh, a new one!" Isabela feigned shock, then chuckled. "Keep trying, Big Girl. Eventually you might find something I haven't heard before."

"Enough, you two," Hawke droned with the weary resignation of one who knew that any peace would be temporary, at best. "Seriously, Aveline, what were you thinking, walking into this on your own? I'd have backed you up, if you'd asked me."

"Would you?" Aveline asked tersely. "I just figured that since you weren't interested in being with the Guard..."

"I'm not with the Guard, Aveline," Hawke replied quietly, the impassive expression back on her face not quite enough to conceal the wound that the other woman's words had inflicted. "That doesn't mean I'm not with you. I thought you knew that."

"I -" Aveline dropped her eyes, shame washing over her face. "I'm sorry, Devon. I shouldn't have said that. I've just missed having someone I could trust at my back. Being in the guard...it's not the way I thought it would be. The way it _should_ be. I led a group of guards to break up an ambush that we discovered was planned along the Sundermount patrol route, and Captain Jeven _reprimanded_ us for going outside our assigned patrols! That's why I didn't bring anyone else with me this time."

"Now why do you suppose the captain of the Guard wouldn't want his crimefighters fighting crime?" Isabela asked of no one in particular, her eyes cutting to the lone surviving bandit, who was struggling to free himself from the vines.

"It really doesn't make much sense, does it?" Merrill murmured, her brow knit in perplexity, then smoothing as she followed the pirate's gaze. "Oh! You mean that he was working with these criminals, don't you?"

"Very good, Kitten," Isabela congratulated her, earning a delighted blush and smile from the elf. "And it certainly is an idea worth exploring. What's in the bag, Hawke?"

"Gold and patrol schedules for Hightown," Hawke reported, breaking the seal and sorting through the contents.

"Jeven frequently assigns the low-activity patrol shifts to carry payroll and assignments to the other stations," Aveline offered with a frown, "but Guardsman Donnic wasn't scheduled to go to the Hightown station tonight."

"And I'll bet that nobody but Jeven knew that the Hightown roster was in this bag," Hawke drawled, coming to her feet and stalking toward the ensnared man. "You tried to kill my friend," she told him calmly. "Tell me all you know, and the worst you'll face is a prison cell. Hold anything back and -" Her expression never changed as she reached out and twisted the bolt that pierced the man's shoulder. He let out a strangled mix of oaths and screams that made Merrill wince and look away.

"I'll tell, I'll tell!" he gasped out at last. "Jeven owed us money, been paying us back a bit at a time."

"By sending lone guards out to be slaughtered," Aveline guessed, her face stony.

"Selling out his own?" Hawke shook her head with a sardonic smile. "Forget guard work; sounds like this Jeven should be in politics."

"Not funny, Hawke," Aveline murmured, glaring at the bandit. "The rest of it. Now."

He tried to shrug, choking off a cry as the movement jarred the crossbow bolt. "Not much more to tell. The gold and the Hightown patrols for the next month were gonna be the last of it. Once we knew where the guards would be, it would've been easy pickings."

"Tell that story to the Viscount, and I'll recommend leniency in your sentencing," Aveline told him grimly, wrenching the bolt from his shoulder and gesturing to Merrill to end her spell. As the vines retracted, he sagged forward into the less than gentle arms of the guard, who roughly bound his hands behind his back and hauled him to his feet. She paused, her eyes meeting Hawke's. "I owe you," she said quietly.

"Yes, you do," Hawke replied, then grinned. "I'll settle for a beer at the Hanged Man sometime, if you don't mind slumming."

"Being in the company of friends isn't slumming," the big girl said seriously, "and I won't forget what you said."

"You'd better not," Hawke shot back easily, "or I'll kick your ass."

"That was sweet," Merrill said, beaming as she watched Aveline hauling her prisoner toward the Hanged Man (presumably to retrieve Guardsman Donnic before Varric got him too drunk to walk). "Didn't you think that was sweet, Bela?"

"Positively nausea-inducing," the pirate agreed dryly. "Now let's go get paid and get a drink. I need something to settle my stomach."

* * *

"You shouldn't let it show so much, you know?"

"Oh?" Hawke paused with her mug halfway to her lips, regarding Isabela with a quirky grin. "And here I thought you liked my ass," she quipped, glancing back at said ass (which was admittedly nicely displayed by the well fitting leather pants).

"Oh, I like your ass quite well," the pirate assured her, "but if you keep sticking it out, you're going to lose it." She took a drink from her own mug, the whiskey burning its way down her throat to her gut, then spreading tendrils of warmth through her blood. "Caring about people is a bad idea, Hawke, but letting it show is even worse. If the person you care about doesn't screw you over, somebody else who knows that you care will use that person to get to you."

Devon leaned back against the bar, the whimsical smile still on her lips. "So, you don't give a damn about Merrill? Is that what you're saying?"

"That's different," the pirate countered. "Is it really such a bad idea to have a -" She caught herself before the words escaped her. "To have her as an ally?" Varric had volunteered to escort Merrill home a short time earlier, after they had divided up their pay from Martin (he'd not been happy at having to double his original offer but with the only other option being to go in search of his poisons himself, he'd coughed it up). Merrill had been all for a celebratory drink, but halfway through her second glass of wine, she'd been giggling and almost falling out of her chair. Having a mage (particularly a blood mage) drunk in public was rarely a good idea, and when the flames in the fireplace and the lamps had begun flaring in time with her hiccups, the dwarf had declared that it was time to call it a night and led the tipsy elf toward the alienage.

"If I thought that was all it was, I'd kick your ass," Hawke told her, grinning now. "Admit it: the legendary pirate queen has a heart of gold under that gorgeous cleavage."

"If I did, I'd have traded it for a ship long before now," Isabela replied sourly, knowing there was no way she was going to win the argument she'd started. Draining her drink, she grabbed Hawke's hand, tugging her toward the stairs. "Why don't we skip over the rest of the meaningful conversation and get straight to the meaningless, mind-blowing sex?"

Hawke immediately finished her mead and flipped a coin to Corff. "You're on."


	3. Tavern Talk

"Dammit, Hawke, _now_!" Isabela gasped, squirming impatiently under the Fereldan's practiced touch, but Devon only chuckled.

"Patience," she admonished, the teasing singsong setting the pirate's teeth on edge. "You do want Merrill to know how to take care of you while I'm gone, don't you?" Without waiting for an answer, she resumed talking to the elf as though she had never been interrupted. "You see how it works? Long, slow strokes, then use your thumb like this -" Isabela groaned in pleasure as she matched deed to word; it felt so damn _good_ , but she needed _more_! "Nice, tight circles."

"Yes...yes, I see." Merrill's voice was keen with interest, and Isabela knew that the elf would be right there beside Hawke, watching as the rogue worked her magic. "Oh, that does seem to be quite effective, doesn't it?"

The pirate pressed her face into the pillow, grinding the coarse linen between her teeth to muffle the curses that wanted to escape, lest her tormentor decide to be even more devious. She should have known when Hawke innocently suggested teaching Merrill to fill in for her while she was away that she was planning something like this. The bitch was probably wanting her to beg, but she was damned if she would...but she really, _really_ needed...

"Hawke, _please_ , dammit!" she snarled over one shoulder.

A pause, then, "Oh, my...this is a first. Should we do as she asks, Merrill?"

"It seems only right, doesn't it?" the mage asked, as guileless as ever. "It doesn't seem quite fair to spend this much time only to leave her all wound up, after all. Sort of defeats the purpose of the activity, I should think."

"True enough," Hawke agreed amiably, leaning forward from where she straddled the pirate's hips, effectively pinning her to the bed. "All right, my dear," she murmured into the pirate's ear, her voice low and seductive, full of promise. "You asked for it..."

crack _crack_ _ **CRACK**_

Hawke's grunt of exertion and the sound of her spine snapping sharply back into alignment were all but drowned out by Isabela's "Maker's balls, _yes_!"scream of relief as the sharp pains that had been jabbing at her for the last three days vanished.

"Did it hurt too badly, Isabela?" Merrill knelt beside the bed, peering worriedly into the pirate's face. "It sounded quite impressive, but I would think that it would hurt."

"In a good way, Kitten," Isabela assured her, stretching languorously as Hawke moved off of her and took up a towel to clean the massage oil from her hands. She twisted this way and that, reveling in the return of the ability to move without feeling as though someone was jabbing daggers into her back, then lifted her head to glare at the other rogue. "But I ought to kick your ass for drawing it out like that!" It was Hawke's fault that her back was screwed up, in the first place: dragging her through those damn tunnels beneath Darktown - again - and this time chasing blood mages and baby templars, of all things!

"Merrill had to learn," Hawke replied with an utterly unrepentant grin, "and if you don't get the muscles along the spine nice and loose, the bones won't move at all." She glanced at Merrill. "Think you can do it?"

Merrill nodded. "I think so, yes, though I won't be nearly so good at it as you are."

"Just takes practice," Hawke replied with uncharacteristic modesty, lifting Isabela's corset from where it hung on the bedpost and tossing it to the pirate. "Now, what do you say we get downstairs before Varric drinks the tavern dry?"

* * *

"To the Captain of the Guard!"

Aveline blushed at the toast, but cocked an eyebrow at the one who offered it. "Thank you, Varric, but I'm still not doing anything to help you steal the Hanged Man." She turned her head to regard the stairs as Hawke, Isabela and Merrill descended, giving the first two her best 'Was that really necessary?' look and getting a cheerful 'Who me?' grin from Hawke in return. The big girl shook her head, rolling her eyes in resignation. She never could stay mad at Hawke. Isabela, on the other hand...

"So, Captain," she began, dropping into a chair beside Aveline. "Can I call you Captain? You can call me Captain."

"I won't be doing that," the other woman assured her in an icy voice.

Well, fine. She'd tried to be generous. "Neither will I. Because you're a guard captain. No real authority. Not like on a ship."

Green eyes looked her up and down. "Well, you would know about having a large number of men under you."

The pirate grinned at her; she was getting more fun to play with...slowly but surely. "You've been waiting to use that one, haven't you? Did you practice?"

Man-hands glowered at her, then resorted to the tried and true. "Shut up, whore."

Isabela chuckled and moved on. Between Aveline's promotion and the fact that the Deep Roads expedition was departing the next day, there was no shortage of company to be had at the Hanged Man.

* * *

"You'll take care of Hawke, won't you?" Merrill implored Anders. "And Varric...and Fenris...and yourself, of course. You're so much better at healing than I am."

"The path you've chosen is not known for being nurturing," the other mage replied in that half-chiding, half-superior tone that he almost invariably assumed when speaking with the elf...and one that set Isabela's teeth on edge.

And when Merrill bit her lip and dropped her eyes, the pirate came close to reaching across the table and backhanding the self-righteous shit.

"I know it's not, but it can do other things that the other schools of magic cannot," Merrill said earnestly.

"It's forbidden for good reason, Merrill," Anders replied. "It's dangerous!"

"Sort of like inviting a spirit to live in your head and then finding out that you can't evict him?" Isabela inquired sweetly. The look that he shot her was far from friendly, though it could have been due either to the fact that her comment hit its mark or that Hawke continued to sidestep his attempts at romance while engaging in any number of casual dalliances...including the one with Isabela. She rather suspected that the only reason he had volunteered for the expedition was the off chance that it might get him into Devon's pants.

"Justice is no demon," he growled as Merrill gave her a grateful look.

"Well, he's certainly made you his bitch," she drawled insultingly. "I don't ever recall Merrill losing control of her magic the way you did in the Chantry." For all the doom and gloom spouted about blood mages by the Chantry, the one example that Isabela had any degree of acquaintance with (she didn't count the ones they had killed among that number) had impressive control, and used no blood but her own. It seemed to the pirate to be no more or less prone than any other magic to abuse, and no different than any other weapon. A dagger could cut cheese or flesh; poison could kill rats or a man. But then, she'd known from an early age that the Chantry was full of crap, so more evidence in support was no real surprise.

"I did _not_ lose control!" Anders grated at her, fingers digging into the table's surface as his voice took on a resonance that she'd heard before. Heads turned and he dropped his eyes, his face flushing a dull scarlet. She almost felt sorry for him; seeing a friend made Tranquil certainly counted as provocation, but his stubborn attitude about the whole thing annoyed the hell out of her...and made her uneasy.

For a brief moment, she entertained the notion of joining the expedition into the Deep Roads...into dark tunnels and suffocating caves, with miles of earth and stone between her and the sky.

_No...not happening._

"You're glowing," she told him, half taunting, half warning as she rose. "And if you get -" _Hawke._ "-anyone killed down there because you can't keep your 'friend' on a leash, don't bother coming back."

* * *

"So, why are you going along, Elf?" Varric asked, deliberately drawing Fenris' attention away from Anders. "After being a slave, I would have thought you'd have enough of confinement."

"The power of choice makes all the difference," Fenris replied with a shrug, his suspicious glare slow to move away from the mage. "I can leave this confinement when I choose."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," the dwarf warned him. "The Deep Roads is not some stroll in the woods. You get lost in those tunnels, you may never find your way out, and that's without factoring in the cave-ins, darkspawn and giant spiders."

The elf snorted, sardonic amusement gleaming in his eyes. "I thought you were supposed to be convincing people to go?"

"Only if they know what they're in for," Varric replied. "Bartrand's the one to talk to if you want to hear about how we'll be scooping up gold and gems as we walk."

"I've little use for wealth," Fenris replied. "Its influence is almost as corrupting as magic, from what I have seen."

Varric lifted an eyebrow. "Pure and poor sounds noble enough, but that ruin you're squatting in is in desperate need of redecorating. Trust me: you can brood in luxury just as easily as you can in squalor."

"Any coin I make will be used to help me get to Danarius," the elf replied flatly. "And be considered well spent when I hold his heart in my hands."

"And they say that money can't buy happiness," the dwarf murmured. "So that's why you're going, then?"

The elf's eyes glinted in irritation. "Why is it you want to know?"

"For the story, of course," Varric replied expansively. "You've got to have motivations if you want the plot to make sense. Hawke is going so that she can rescue her family from a life of squalor and replenish the family fortune, Blondie is going so that he can win the affection of his lady love -" He continued, ignoring the glares from both Anders and Hawke, "Bartrand wants to be filthy rich, and I am

going for the sake of a good story. Plus, I wouldn't mind the filthy rich part." He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his stomach. "So, what's your motivation?"

Fenris shook his head bemusedly. "I owe Hawke a debt," he replied curtly, "for assisting me in defeating the hunters that Danarius sent after me. Assisting her in this endeavor will pay that debt."

"So...bound by honor, then?" Varric cocked his head, weighing the possibilities. "Any chance of you developing a hopeless attraction to the tale's heroine while we're down there? 'Lust In The Deep Roads' has a nice ring to it, and love triangles always add a nice twist to things."

"Varric." The warning in Hawke's voice was unmistakable, while Anders looked capable of murder.

"Just thinking aloud, Hawke," the dwarf replied placatingly. "It's not like it actually has to happen for me to write about it, right?"

"It won't," Fenris stated calmly, meeting the mage's heated glare with his own, ice cold eyes.

* * *

"I'm beginning to think you've lost your mind," Isabela commented, settling into a chair beside Hawke and her sister. "Taking that pair into the Deep Roads? Together?"

"Not much choice," Hawke replied. "Aveline's got her job, you're afraid of being underground -"

"I am _not_ afraid," the pirate shot back indignantly. "I just don't like tight spaces. And don't go there!" she warned Hawke as she saw the smirk rising.

"There and back already," Hawke snickered.

"You two," Bethany sighed in affectionate exasperation, but her hazel eyes were worried. "I wish I could go."

Hawke shook her head. "Mother's put her foot down," she told her sister, "and I'm not going to go against it."

"I'm not a child!" Bethany protested.

"No, you're not," Hawke agreed readily. "It's not a question of ability, little sister. Mother's never really gotten over Carver's death; if anything happened to you down there -"

"What about you?" Bethany cried out. "What if _you_ get killed down there? It's not worth it -"

"Yes, it is," Hawke stopped her, her voice measured. "To give Mother back at least a piece of what that weasel took from her...to make certain that she – and you – never have to rely upon his 'charity' again...it's worth that a hundred times over." Her sudden grin cut through the depressingly serious shroud that had fallen over the conversation. "Besides, you know me, Beth. Nothing's going to happen, and I'll be back before you know it."

* * *

"Look after Bethany for me, will you?"

Isabela nodded. "You can count on it." The festivities ended, they had seen Bethany and Merrill escorted back to their homes by Aveline and Varric, then headed by mutual consent toward the Blooming Rose.

Hawke's eyes cut sideways at her. "Touch her and I'll kill you." There was no jealousy in her words, but while she probably didn't mean that last part literally, it was not a completely idle threat.

"I wasn't planning on it," the pirate replied, "but she was right, Hawke; she's not a child."

"I know that," Hawke growled. "She hasn't been a child since her magic first manifested. She's always had to be careful, always afraid." She was silent for a moment. "I'd give anything if I could make it so that she didn't have to be afraid all the time. She deserves to be happy; she was always the one who was making peace between Carver and me, always the one to do what Mother and Father wanted."

"While you were the one stealing to pay the bills?" Isabela reminded her.

Hawke shrugged. "We had to eat," she said simply. "Especially Carver. I swear he had a hollow leg." She trailed off, her eyes distant and shadowed with an old grief.

Isabela watched her silently. "It wasn't your fault," she offered at last, as they entered Hightown.

"Maybe not," Hawke replied, her tone making it clear that she didn't believe it, "but it's done."

Maybe she should go with them.

_Darkness. Walls close around, pressing in on all sides. Trapped._

_No._

"So, who's it going to be?" she asked, forcing jocularity into her voice as the Blooming Rose came into view. It was getting entirely too serious for her liking. "Jethann, Adriano or Katriela?"

"I have to choose?" Hawke gave her a sly grin, mischief chasing away the gloom in her eyes. "Why not all three?" The notion of bedding each other on the eve of departure had been entirely too cliché for the tastes of either, but the Rose offered a pleasant alternative.

Isabela uttered a bark of disbelieving laughter. "All three? This is a parting token, Hawke; I'm not sending you to your death! Come back with enough coin, and you can buy the whole place, if you want. And I expect a discount, if you do."

Hawke snorted. "I'm surprised you don't get one already."

"I never said I didn't," the pirate replied with a wink, "but banging the proprietor has got to be good for an upgrade."

There was no bravado to her words. Isabela honestly believed that Hawke would be coming back from the Deep Roads.

Until Bartrand emerged from the tunnels weeks later, claiming to be the only survivor of the expedition.

* * *

"You're lying!"

Bethany's voice, rising above the bustle in the Hightown market square, caused Isabela to put on an extra burst of speed, Aveline on her heels.

Hawke's sister faced Bartrand Tethras, her normally gentle expression twisted by anger and grief. "What did you do to her?"

Bartrand regarded her with pale blue eyes...eyes that had always been cold, but had acquired more than a hint of madness since he'd returned from the Deep Roads.

"Your sister was killed by darkspawn, girl!" he said harshly. "They cut her down while she was trying to run away!"

"You lie!" Bethany shouted again. "Devon never ran from anything in her life! You did something to her...to them!"

_Shit, shit, shit._

"Bethany, this isn't the place for this." Aveine interposed herself between human and dwarf, her hands on Bethany's shoulders, trying to look her in the eyes.

Bethany resisted, pushing her away. "Not the place? How can you say that? He killed my sister...his own brother...all of them!"

"Is this any way for an honest merchant to be treated?" Bartrand demanded of Aveline. "You're the captain of the guard; deal with this crazy bitch!"

"I'll take care of it," Aveline replied tersely, barely keeping a civil tone. None of them believed that Bartrand had simply survived when Hawke and Varric had fallen. "You could help by leaving."

"I've got as much right to be here as anyone!" the dwarf bellowed. "She's the one disturbing the peace!"

"Sweetness, not now." Isabela caught Bethany's face in her hands, forcing the younger woman to look at her. Hawke would have known the message in the pirate's eyes: _We'll shank him later, when he's alone._ But Bethany saw only another denial.

"No!" she shoved Isabela away even more violently. "I want to know what happened to my sister!" Her hands were suddenly aglow with barely suppressed magic, and the gathering crowd of onlookers drew back with a collective gasp. "I'll make you tell me!" she threatened.

Bartrand's eyes glowed with an ugly satisfaction, but he screwed his face into a mask of fear as he drew back. "Apostate!" he cried out, the call rapidly taken up by the crowd. "Somebody help, this apostate is attacking me!"

_Shit, shit, **shit**!_

Balling her hand into a fist, Isabela silently asked Hawke for forgiveness as she swung at Bethany, the blow connecting with the mage's jaw and sending her staggering back, the impending spell disrupted.

But by then, the templars had arrived, and it was already too late.


	4. Back From The Dead

"Come on, Big Girl," Isabela called out as she strode into Aveline's office. "We've got bigger things to do than figure out next week's roster."

The irritation on the Guard-Captain's face faded quickly when she saw the pirate's expression. "What is it?" she asked, rising from her chair and reaching for her sword. "Is she -"

"Likely halfway to the Gallows by now," Isabela finished for her, "and Brennan's nursing a goose-egg and a headache. You should have let me use my people."

Aveline glared at her, but she was already halfway to the door as she replied heatedly, "My guards are more than capable -"

"Of dealing with Lowtown rabble and rowdy sailors," Isabela shot back, falling into step beside the warrior as she took the stairs two at a time. "This is _Hawke_ we're talking about! She _knows_ your guards! Brennan wasn't even trying to hide! She was standing on the steps outside the bloody house! Hawke probably didn't even have to wake up to sneak up on her and sap her."

"All right, all right," Aveline growled, then slowed, giving the other woman a worried look. "She's not hurt badly, is she? Hawke didn't hit her too hard?"

"She'll be fine," the pirate shot back, picking up the pace again. Another time, she might have been annoyed at the question, but there was no denying that Hawke was in a dangerous mood, and she'd finally regained enough strength to give vent to it.

It had been a little more than a week since she, Varric and Anders had staggered out of the Deep Roads, all three of them closer to dead than alive, hauling an assortment of gems and baubles that had made the most optimistic forecasts for the expedition seem cautious, and bearing a tale too incredible for even Varric to have fabricated. Their struggle to survive after Bartrand had trapped them in the ancient thaig they had found had led them to an equally ancient Grey Warden prison whose flagging magical wards had been reinforced by none other than Papa Hawke, shortly before he and Leandra had fled to Ferelden.

The details were still sketchy; even the normally loquacious dwarf clammed up and grew grim when pressed too hard, but they had evidently managed to kill the thing that had been imprisoned there, though not before it had killed Fenris, adding his death to those of the rest of the expedition, whom Bartrand had evidently disposed of after betraying Varric and the other three. Discovering that Bethany was now a resident of the Gallows had done nothing for Devon's temper, and only the fact that she couldn't even stand unaided had kept her from charging off in search of Bartrand, who had gained nearly a month's head start on Hawke and his beyond-pissed younger brother by skipping town after getting Bethany taken to the Gallows, evading Isabela's vengeance by what the pirate figured couldn't be more than minutes, damn it.

Hawke's recuperation had been marked by a decided lack of speech. She accepted Leandra's maternal fussing, wouldn't let Gamlen even come into the room, and responded to the presence of anyone else with stony silence, her eyes focused on some point in the mid-distance.

They'd all known that she was going to do _something_ ; it was only a matter of how long until she had the strength to act. While it wouldn't have been permitted for the Guard-Captain to assign subordinates to guard her friend during their duty hours, Man-hands had no shortage of volunteers during off time; quite a few had their asses pulled out of one fire or another by Hawke and Aveline over the years. There had been no lack of offers on Isabela's side of the street, either, but she had let Aveline take charge, electing to utilize her own forces in a continuing search for the whereabouts of Bartrand.

All of it had been a colossal waste of time; the nug-humping dwarf's trail vanished at the Antivan border, and now if they didn't catch up to Devon in time, they would be explaining to Leandra that she had lost all of her children.

_Dammit, Hawke, you fucking idiot!_

The run from Hightown to the Gallows was almost as long as the sprint from Lowtown to Hightown had been, and the pirate had a definite stitch in her side by the time the always-uplifting statues of the tormented slaves from the Tevinter era came into sight. She clenched her teeth against it; she was damned if she was going to show any weakness to Aveline, who didn't even seem winded, despite the weight of her armor.

"Where do you think she'll be?" Aveline asked, scanning the courtyard from their position in the shadows near the entrance.

"That depends on whether she's planning on killing templars or springing Bethany," Isabela replied, her own eyes quickly selecting the spots that _she_ would have chosen for concealment if she were in Hawke's place. It took time: the contorted shapes of the statues created a virtual forest of irregular shadows that shifted as clouds drifted across the face of the moon overhead. She was confident that Devon would try for her sister first, but if she found herself stymied, she might settle for murder as a consolation prize.

"Anything?" the warrior demanded tersely for the third time in as many minutes.

"If you think it's so damned easy, you try looking for her," Isabela retorted without looking around, her gaze skating from one concealing pool of darkness to the next, searching for something that shouldn't be there.

_Wait...was that?_ She returned her scrutiny to the spot it had just passed over, going as motionless as the statues that towered around her, her eyes locked upon the shadows until she could just barely make out the shadow within them, its movements as subtle and controlled as a cat stalking a particularly skittish mouse.

"She's there," she whispered, nodding in the direction of the statue where Hawke had concealed herself. Her eyes shifted to the pair of templars who stood guard at the foot of the stairs that led from the courtyard to the hall, the templars' barracks and the mages' quarters. It looked as though she had been right in her supposition: the angle of Hawke's approach suggested that she would attempt to bypass the sentries and enter the main building. Now they just had to figure out how to intercept her without alerting the -

"Devon!" Avaline's cheerful - and loud - hail nearly launched the pirate out of her skin.

_Son of a -_

She could only gape, then glare as the Guard-Captain strode past her and across the courtyard, waving as though she were greeting her friend in the Hightown market. She saw the shadow waver, then vanish as the templars' heads turned, but before she could release the set of curses she'd assembled, Hawke appeared at the far side of the courtyard, sauntering out casually to meet Aveline. Shaking her head, Isabela followed the warrior.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" she demanded under her breath, watching as the templars began to move toward them.

"Did you have a better idea?" Man-hands returned calmly, though she plainly couldn't resist a smirk at having caught the pirate off guard. "Sometimes the best way to be sneaky is not to be."

"So if I were to grab your ass -"

"You'd lose your hand," Aveline finished for her, turning her eyes to Hawke as the rogue approached. "Good to see you up and around," she said warmly.

"I'm harder to kill than some might think." Hawke's tone was casual, even bantering, but the look in her eyes was deadly, though it shuttered quickly at the approach of the two templars.

"Guard-Captain," the taller of the pair offered courteously as they drew close enough to recognize Aveline. "What brings you to the Gallows?" _At this time of night?_ his questioning glance finished for him as his eyes shifted between Isabela and Hawke.

"Templar Perrin, Templar Ivar," Aveline replied with equal courtesy, nodding at each man in turn as she spoke. "You know Lady Hawke, I am sure." They'd damn well better; she'd been keeping the order's collective ass wiped long enough that they all should be calling her 'Mama'. "We wanted to see if it would be possible for her to visit her sister, Bethany."

A nervous glance passed between Perrin and Ivar. The templars owed Hawke for ferreting out the blood mages who had attempted to infiltrate the order through their recruits, but -

"Lady Hawke," Perrin began with a nod of acknowledgment to the rogue.

"Ladies don't gut blood mages," Hawke reminded him pointedly, "and I doubt they survive being double-crossed and stranded in the Deep Roads."

"Indeed." Perrin shifted uncomfortably, glancing sideways at his companion. "We have heard of the dwarf's treachery and your most fortunate survival -"

"Rather obvious, that last, since I'm standing right here," Devon drawled, her expression, flat; she knew what was coming.

"However," the templar went on, flushing slightly at the interruption, "mages newly admitted to the Circle are not permitted to see their families for a year, at least, and since your sister was living as an apostate," he broke off, actually looking genuinely regretful, "it will likely be longer. I am sorry. The order remains in your debt for your aid in neutralizing the blood mages -"

"I killed them, Perrin," Hawke cut him off again, her lip curled in disdain at the euphemism. "At the request of your Knight-Captain."

"That is the only reason that you and your family escaped any punishment for harboring an apostate," Ivar replied with the aloof arrogance that too damn many of the Kirkwall templars wore like a second skin. "The Knight-Commander would be viewed as remiss if further exceptions were made."

"Of course." There was no reading Hawke's tone, and Isabela tensed, though at this point, she wasn't certain if she would interfere if Hawke attacked the pair, or assist.

_Fucking holy pricks._

"How is she? Can you tell me that, at least?" Devon wanted to know.

"She is well, L - Hawke," Perrin spoke up, looking almost comically relieved that no hostilities seemed to be forthcoming. Even without Varric's help, rumors of the lost expedition and how the three survivors had managed to escape the Deep Roads were rampant in Kirkwall, gaining ever more jaw-dropping detail with each telling. The last version that Isabela had heard involved them killing a new archdemon...or selling their souls to it, depending on who you listened to.

"She passed her Harrowing without trouble," Perrin went on, ignoring the warning glare from Ivar, "and she's settled in well. She has a gift for calming the younger children."

"She always did have," Hawke muttered, more to herself than Perrin, "not that she'll ever have any of her own now." Eyes the color of the seas lifted to regard the two templars, and the cold anger in them had Isabela's hands drifting carefully toward her daggers.

"Tell her I was here." The words were not delivered in the manner of a request, the tone just shy of an open threat. "Tell her that her sister is alive and tried to see her."

Ivar bristled visibly. "If you think that you can just order us -"

Perrin put a restraining hand on the other's arm; evidently, he held at least some degree of rank over Ivar. Enough to make the shorter man shut up, anyway. "I'll tell her, Hawke, though she has already received word of your return."

"Thank you," Hawke replied, her eyes locked on Ivar, "and I'd suggest making certain that the less honorable members of your order don't take advantage of her in any way."

Ivar's eyes widened in outrage. "If that is meant to be a threat -"

"Threat? No." Hawke shook her head. "Consider it a promise. I'll kill the one that hurts her." Without bothering to wait for a response from either, she turned and walked away, leaving Perrin to calm his sputtering colleague.

Aveline strode after her, Isabela right behind, hating the fact that she had to walk quickly to keep pace with the big girl's long legs. "That could have gone more tactfully, Devon," the guard said quietly as they entered the Docks.

Hawke stopped, spinning to face her, no longer keeping her emotions masked. The weight she'd lost in the Deep Roads showed on her face: eyes sunken, cheeks hollow, and a scar slicing across her forehead to her left temple; the top third of that ear was missing, the absence and the scar tissue hidden beneath the unkempt tumble of blonde hair. None of that detracted from the fury in her expression, the betrayed rage storming in her eyes.

"It didn't have to happen at all!" she snarled, glaring between them. "I ought to kill you both. If anything happens to her, I still might." She whirled again, stalking away from them. "I could have had her out of there with none the wiser."

"Damn it, Hawke!" Aveline followed, grabbing her by the shoulder and spinning her back around, not flinching when the gleam of a dagger hissed through the darkness between them.

"Let. Me. Go." Hawke's voice, low and flat, the tip of her blade pointed at Aveline's throat.

"No." Aveline stood firm, her eyes never leaving Hawke's. "I'm damned if I go back to your mother to tell her that you got both you and Bethany killed, or have you forgotten about the phylacteries? Even if they didn't catch you leaving, they could track her."

"I could stay ahead of them!" Hawke persisted. "I've got enough coin to book passage on a ship to anywhere in Thedas. I could _buy_ a damn ship, if I knew how to sail it." She flashed a reckless grin at Isabela. "Interested?"

_Tempting...oh, so tempting, but -_ "She's right, Hawke." She couldn't believe she was saying that! "They'll never stop looking, so you'll never be able to stop running. Is that what you want for Bethany? Or your mother?" The memory of Leandra's face when the news first came about the expedition, and then later, when she and Man-hands had slunk back to Lowtown to tell of Bethany's capture...that had been the worst part of all of it. What would her own life have been like if her mother had cared for her even a fraction as much as Leandra Hawke loved her children?

"Leave my mother out of this!" Hawke shot back, fresh betrayal etching across her features at the refusal. "I wanted Bethany to be safe! That's why I asked you two to look after her!"

That one hit home: Isabela could see it in the brief tightening of Aveline's eyes, but the big girl didn't crumble.

"And that was going just fine until Bartrand showed up claiming you were dead!" she informed Hawke in an icy voice. "Bethany blew her cover trying to find out what had happened to _you_!" Her voice rose on the last word, and she swatted the dagger aside, leaning in until she was nose to nose with the rogue. " _You_ were the one who left her to go chasing fortune and glory, and _you_ were the one who let that sawed off piece of shit get the drop on you, when you knew damn good and well that he couldn't be trusted any further than you could throw him! _Your_ choices shaped this, Devon, so don't you dare try pushing all the blame onto us!"

A nicely fiery speech, and it made Hawke wilt like a blade of grass in the summer's sun, but it was a lie. Isabela had watched Aveline wallowing in guilt ever since Bethany had been taken, and now they'd both be wallowing, if she didn't do something.

"That's enough, you two," she said, stepping forward and putting a hand on Hawke's wrist, keeping the steady pressure on until the rogue returned her blade to its sheath. "In case you've forgotten, the fucker who really caused all of this is Bartrand? He's the one that you need to be cutting into ribbons, not each other."

"We have to be able to find him to do that," Hawke spat bitterly, but the fire had left her eyes, and she wouldn't look at either of them. "I just wanted her to be safe," she muttered, "and Mother to be happy, and I've screwed it up again." She took a step back, her hands dropping to the hilts of her daggers, hovering over them before falling away as she turned a slow circle, her eyes searching the night for answers, or an outlet for her leashed frustrations, and finding neither.

Isabela exchanged a glance with Aveline. They'd both dealt with Hawke in such moods, though never so dark as this. Normally, a bit of mischief with the pirate smoothed her out, but Isabela didn't think that propping a bucket of piss atop the Knight-Commander's door was going to be enough to bring her around this time. And starting a brawl at the Hanged Man could get some unsuspecting sod killed.

"Captain!"

Hawke spun, blades half drawn and eyes hungry, but the young guardsman who ran up to Aveline was known to them, and she relaxed, watching impassively as the Guard-Captain moved into the guttering light from a tavern window to unroll and read the parchment that had been delivered.

She huffed a sigh, glancing dubiously in Hawke's direction as she sent the puppy on his way with a few terse words. "We've received reliable intelligence that the Carta will be trying to hijack a lyrium shipment scheduled to arrive at the western docks tonight," she told them.

"The Carta?" A blind man could not have missed the sudden intensity in Hawke's face. They had been involved somewhere in the Deep Roads clusterfuck, though Isabela still wasn't sure just how. She was going to have to get Varric drunk someday soon.

Aveline knew no more than the pirate, but she was plainly aware of the effect that her words would have. She nodded. "We've been trying to get a handle on who is leading them here in Kirkwall, but no luck so far." She hesitated, then took the plunge. "Your help would be welcome; as long as they can answer questions, I'm not going to worry about what shape they're arrested in."

She didn't need the help; Isabela knew that much. In the months since taking office, she had whipped the city guard from a bunch of demoralized sellswords into a reasonably cohesive fighting unit whose members would walk through fire for her. She was offering Hawke the outlet that she needed, and the only olive branch she could come up with.

"My help?" Hawke asked, seeming ready to offer some cynical retort, then visibly reconsidering. "All right," she said with an odd little grin. "Let's go."

Isabela stepped to Aveline's side as Hawke led the way. "You do realize that you're going to regret not wording that more carefully, don't you?" she offered helpfully.

"I suspect that I will," Aveline replied in a resigned tone.

* * *

"Told you," Isabela murmured two hours later as she and Aveline watched Hawke moving among the captured dwarves of the Carta. She would bend, whispering a question into the ear of each, and when her words were met with violent shakes of heads and savage oaths, she would drive a short stiletto blade into the center of the back, low on the spine, a sharp twist of her wrist ensuring that any who were released from prison would be joining the legions of crippled beggars who crowded the tunnels of Darktown.

Aveline's jaw clenched, conflicting imperatives rippling across her features. "I can't let this continue," she muttered after Hawke had worked her way through half of the prisoners. The rest of the guard stood by with wide eyes that occasionally shifted to their Captain.

Hawke didn't look surprised when Aveline approached, straightening to look up at the taller woman with a mirthless smile. "What? They can all still talk."

"Hawke..." Aveline shook her head. "This has gone on long enough. I'm sorry, but I can't -"

Hawke shrugged. "They don't know where Bartrand's at anyway. Long shot, but it was worth a try." She stepped around the writhing and groaning dwarves on the boards of the pier and walked away without looking back. Aveline watched her go, her green eyes shadowed with worry as they lifted to meet Isabela's. The pirate gave her a slight nod.

_I'll take it from here._ Hawke was still smiling, but her eyes were ice cold, the storm swirling just beneath the surface. "Come on." She caught the rogue's hand in her own, drawing her away, and Hawke followed without complaint. The spring left her step as soon as they moved out of the light of the torches, and she plodded in silence behind Isabela all the way back to the Hanged Man.

"I should get home," Hawke said, glancing around as though surprised at finding herself there and trying in a halfhearted way to pull her hand out of Isabela's.

"Not yet." The pirate refused to relinquish her hold. "Get cleaned up first," she said, nodding at the bloodstains on Hawke's armor and skin. "Your mother doesn't need to see that."

"Even if it's from trying to track down the bastard who cost us Bethany?" Hawke asked, but she let Isabela draw her inside and upstairs.

"Get out of those and I'll get some water." Leaving Hawke in her room, the pirate went back down to round up a jug of water and a bottle of whiskey from Corff. So far as she knew, Hawke hadn't had a drink since the night of the farewell party.

"I can't vouch for the exact number of rat droppings in it, but -" she swung into the room and stopped short, staring. "Shit, Hawke."

"What?" Hawke looked at her in puzzlement, then down at the scars that crisscrossed her skin: angry, red lines of puckered and twisted flesh, some obviously the work of blades, others just as plainly made by teeth or claws. "Those?" Her fingers came up to trace one gnarled scar that ran from just beneath her ribcage on one side to just above the hip on the other, the too prominent bones jutting beneath the too pale skin further testimony of just how much she had endured in the weeks below. "They don't hurt."

"Is that what that bastard calls keeping you healed?" Isabela demanded heatedly. She was going to kill that arrogant son of a bitch. "I could have done a better job with a needle and thread!"

"Anders kept us alive, Bela," Hawke replied quietly, "and damn near killed himself doing it. He didn't have enough to spare to make it pretty. He said he'd finish the job once we were topside, but he's got to get his strength back, too."

"Shit," Isabela repeated, for lack of anything better to say. _I should have gone?_ No, she wasn't even remotely thinking that...quite the opposite, in fact. _You shouldn't have gone?_ Closer to the truth, but not likely to be well received by present company. Setting the whiskey aside, she took up a rag and wet it with water, stepping closer and brushing the hair away from Hawke's face, her fingers trailing over the scarred top of her ear. "Hold still."

Hawke pushed her hand away irritably. "I'm not an invalid, damn it," she growled, snatching the cloth away and beginning to wipe the half dried blood from her face and neck. "And you're not my mother."

"I should hope not," Isabela smirked, watching Hawke move to the table where she'd set the whiskey, pull the cork and take three long pulls from the bottle. Setting it down, she leaned against the table for a long moment, her eyes closed, swaying slightly.

"Needed that," she muttered, returning to her attempts to clean off the blood, with limited success. Isabela watched her for several moments before stepping in to reclaim the cloth.

"No, I'm not your mother," she said briskly, swatting Hawke's hands away, "but I _am_ the person who's not going to let you anywhere near my bed until you're cleaned up."

Devon grumbled a bit, but submitted to the pirate's ministrations, letting her wipe the blood away, then leaning in to kiss her. The kiss wasn't lacking in passion, but the effect was a bit spoiled when Hawke swayed again , then staggered, falling against her with a muffled oath.

"You need to rest," Isabela told her, slipping a supporting arm around the rogue and guiding her toward the bed.

"Do not," Hawke protested, but the words were ever so slightly slurred, and the hands that fumbled at the laces of her corset lacked their usual deft skill. "Mebbe I do," she mumbled as the pirate helped her settle onto the bed.

"Darling, if three shots of whiskey can do this to you, you definitely do," Isabela informed her, guiding her to the pillow and drawing the light blanket up to her shoulders. "I'll send word to your mother," she added, seeing another protest start to form. Hawke nodded her assent, but when Isabela bent to the oil lamp that burned on the bedside table, she stiffened again, her hand reaching out to catch the other's wrist.

"Don't." Her voice was suddenly sharp, a flush tinting her cheeks at the pirate's questioning glance. "Just...leave it burning, all right?" she muttered, dropping her eyes in shame.

Isabela nodded slowly. "Sure, Hawke." The rogue accepted this without comment, sagging back to the bed, her eyes closing immediately. She was asleep in less than a minute, her breathing steady and slow. The pirate watched her for a bit, feeling the anger burning in her gut. Damn Bartrand to the Void and back. She hated seeing her friend so...reduced. Devon had been fearless; if what she had endured below had affected her so drastically, what might it have done to Isabela, had she been fool enough to go?

_How about we don't think about that?_

Agreeing with herself, as usual – no point in arguing with someone who was always right, was there? - she turned her attention to the armor and clothes that Hawke had left on the floor. The leather jerkin and leggings were Hawke's older set; the armor she'd bought for the expedition had been beyond repair by the time they had emerged from the Deep Roads, and she'd not yet had the chance to have a new set made. Worn, but obviously well cared for, the armor had been liberally festooned with Carta blood. The pirate considered just pitching it – the price of replacing it certainly wasn't going to be an issue for Hawke - but her eyes fell on the only ornamental feature of either piece: a tiny hawk, wings spread and talons outstretched, embossed onto the neck of the jerkin and the waistband of the leggings. One of the few things that Hawke had mentioned about her father was that he had been a leatherworker, 'apostate' being a trade that made for awkward advertising.

Gathering armor, boots, gloves and clothes into a bundle, Isabela paused long enough to scribble a note on a scrap of parchment, dipped into Hawke's belt pouch for a few sovereigns and eased out the door.

"Norah, be a gem and get these cleaned, will you?" she called out, holding up the bundle in one hand and the note in the other, "And see that this gets delivered to Leandra Hawke at Gamlen Amell's home."

The waitress shot Isabela a sour look. "And do I look like your personal maid, m'lady?" she demanded sarcastically.

"You look like a woman who's about to lose a couple of easy sovereigns," the pirate replied, twirling one of the coins between her fingers. Norah's expression didn't get any more friendly, but she hustled over to snatch the bundle, the note and the two sovereigns, . "Just leave them outside my door and knock," Isabela called after her.

"Rivaini." Varric's voice was more gravelly than usual, but still recognizable. Climbing the stairs, she found him lounging in the alcove in front of the suite that he rented, Bianca leaning against his chair. He'd lost weight, as well, and while his complexion was not as sallow as Hawke's had been, he bore his share of scars, including three parallel grooves across his chest that really should have been a crime. Even Bianca sported a few new scratches.

"You look like shit," she told him bluntly, though he had improved from when she'd first seen him the previous week. Then, he'd looked like a corpse that hadn't gotten around to falling over yet; all three of them had.

"Amazing," he muttered. "Since that's exactly how I feel." The penetrating eyes fixed on her. "How's Hawke? Norah said she came in with you."

"She's fine," the pirate asserted.

"You and Aveline kept her from breaking into the Gallows?" Despite his skill at storytelling, information was Varric's true profession, and he had obviously wasted no time in getting back to work.

Isabela hesitated, then nodded. "What happened to you down there, Varric? I've never seen her like this...or you, for that matter."

He cocked his head, regarding her for a long moment. "I could give you the story that'll be offered up as the truth to my adoring public," he said at last, "but it's for Hawke to tell you what she wants to. Suffice it to say, it was a good deal less entertaining than knocking back a pint downstairs, if slightly less hazardous to the health than Corff's hooch."

His thin smile, and the wall that went up just past the surface of his eyes, made it clear that she'd get no more than that from him. "I'd better get back," she told him. "She's sleeping."

"That won't last," the dwarf predicted. "You left a light burning, didn't you?" At her nod, he continued, his expression bleak. "It's easier to shake off if you can see when you wake up."

There didn't seem to be much that she could say to that, so she just nodded. "See you later, Varric."

His voice followed her up the stairs. "Take care of her, Rivaini."

Back in the room, she locked the door behind her, stripped down and crawled into bed beside Hawke. The blonde shifted slightly, her features tightening briefly before she relaxed, settling back into slumber with an unintelligible mumble. Isabela stretched out cautiously, deciding to keep a bit of space between herself and the Fereldan, and lay on her side, her head pillowed on one arm as she watched Devon.

At some point, she slipped into a light doze, so she had no idea how much time had passed when Hawke exploded from sleep with a hoarse shout, hands groping at her sides for daggers that were not there.

"Hawke!" Without thinking, she sat up, reaching out to the rogue. "Hawke, it's all -" No sooner had she touched Devon's shoulder than the rest of her words were cut off by a pair of hands locking around her throat. Fuck, she'd never seen anyone move so damn fast! Hawke's face was set in a mask of fear and rage, but her eyes were still caught in whatever dream had brought her up so violently, staring at Isabela without seeing her as her hands tightened inexorably. The pirate brought her own hands up, trying to break Devon's grip, but the woman who had been almost unable to stand a few hours earlier had the strength of desperation now, and white spots began dancing merrily in Isabela's vision.

"Hak-" She choked out the mangled syllable, tried again. "Hawke!"

The iron grip slackened, the deep-ocean eyes blinking, hazed with confusion, then bright with abrupt awareness and alarm, and the hands flew from her neck as swiftly as if they'd been burned.

"Bela?" Hawke's voice, sick with horror, wide eyes going from her hands to the pirate's throat, which was no doubt sporting the beginnings of what would be a spectacular set of bruises. "Shit, Bela, I'm sor-"

She got no further before Isabela grabbed her shoulders and yanked her down into a kiss. Almost getting killed invariably had that effect on her, though she was rarely in a position to take such immediate advantage of the impulse.

Hawke matched her hunger briefly, then pulled back. "Isabela, what -"

"It's called sex, Hawke, remember?" Isabela rolled her eyes, keeping her arms looped around the blonde's neck. "You weren't underground _that_ long, were you?"

Irritation and arousal warred in Hawke's eyes, along with the fear that she'd carried out of the dream. "No, but I almost killed you!"

"But you didn't! Let's celebrate!"

"You're crazy!"

"Then we both are; don't tell me you don't want it, too."

"But -"

"Hawke!"

"What?"

"Shut _up_!"

* * *

"Now, wasn't that much more fun than you spending the whole night apologizing to me?" Isabela asked, stretching with lazy satisfaction, feeling pleasantly sated. Gods, but she'd missed...this. Missed the luxury of a lover who knew every inch of her, knew just where and how to touch to make her forget everything but the heady siren's song of lust.

"Yes." A hint of the old Hawke in the amusement that danced in the other's eyes, the gleam pushing the shadows back. "More fun than I've had in a while, in fact."

"Oh?" the pirate cocked an eyebrow at her. "So, no 'Lust In The Deep Roads', then?" Hawke remained silent, but a glance at her face told Isabela all she needed to know. "Ha! You _did_ do one of them! Or was it both?" Freeing herself from the tangle of sheets and sweaty limbs, she sat up, watching her bedmate expectantly. "I'm waiting for details!"

Hawke chuckled, rolling onto her back and propping herself up on her elbows.

"Fenris. Once," she said, "but 'fun' isn't really the word I'd use."

"Then you weren't doing it right," Isabela advised her. "What's the point of having sex if it's not fun?"

Hawke shrugged, her expression growing distant. "At that point, it was just taking our minds off the fact that neither of us thought we were going to make it out alive." She shrugged again. "As it turned out, we were half right."

Isabela sighed. Things were going to get serious whether she wanted them to or not, it seemed. "I'm sorry," she offered awkwardly. "Did you want to talk about it? Not the sex, I mean," though she wouldn't mind finding out if those tattoos really had covered his whole body, "the rest of it." She really wasn't any good at this sort of thing, but Hawke was...a friend. "What happened."

"No." The Fereldan shook her head, the desire flaring in her eyes again as she reached for the pirate not quite strong enough to conceal the shadows that she sought to escape. "I don't want to talk at all."

"That's fine, too," Isabela murmured, letting the rogue draw her back down.

* * *

The knock at the door roused her, but she didn't open her eyes until she felt Hawke climbing out of the bed. She watched her pad to the door, opening it a bit and retrieving the bundle that Norah had left in the hall outside.

"Leaving so soon?" she asked as Hawke began pulling on the clean clothes. Not that she had ever stayed the night before, but Isabela hadn't been planning on kicking her out. Not that she wanted Hawke to stay, exactly; she just wasn't in any particular hurry for her to go, that was all.

"Need to get home," Hawke replied, dressing with swift efficiency. Her expression was calm, the weariness faded, the shadows banished to a safe distance for the time being. "Mother will worry no matter what you told her." She stood, buckling her belt at her waist and settling her daggers into position at each hip. Her eyes remained on the floor for a long minute, then lifted to meet those of the pirate. "Thanks, Bela," she said quietly. "For...for everything."

It was as close to an apology for her angry words earlier that night as Isabela was likely to get, as close as Devon was likely to come to admitting that her plan to break Bethany out of the Gallows had been a disaster in waiting. "Any time, Hawke," she replied, yawning and reaching out to claim the pillow that Hawke had abandoned. "Just remember this when Castillon shows up."

The rogue quirked a grin at her – not quite as cocky as the old Hawke, but getting there. "He'll be dead before he leaves the docks," she promised as she left. Isabela chuckled and closed her eyes, hearing the door lock engage. A good night's work, all in all, and she planned to reward herself by sleeping until noon.


	5. A Sisterly Interlude

"Mage Hawke, come with me, please."

Though no harm had been offered her since she had arrived at the Gallows (if one wasn't counting the Harrowing that she'd been forced to undergo almost immediately), Bethany still felt her heart begin to pound against her breastbone at the command, politely worded as it might be. A lifetime of conditioning would not be easily dismissed, particularly with the rumors that she'd heard whispered by the other members of the Circle when no templars were nearby - which was seldom.

This particular templar – Geoffrey – was one of the older members of the order, and not one of those mentioned in the rumors, but he had still caught her alone in a hallway…not that a roomful of witnesses would have made her feel any safer as she moved to obey him. He glanced nervously this way and that, a fine sheen of sweat visible on his brow, and Bethany felt her heartbeat accelerate.

"Where are we going?" she asked him, forcing calmness into her voice as he led her to one of the lesser used stairwells and began to descend. The trick was in seeming neither fearful nor defiant when dealing with a templar; the former tended only to arouse those with cruel tendencies, while the latter was all but guaranteed to garner disapproval from any of them.

"No talking," he replied curtly without looking back, tension lacing his voice.

Lower and lower they went, past the level where the cells were – "Penitents' quarters", they were called by Knight Commander Meredith without a hint of irony – until the stairs ended in a dusty, cobweb-laden corridor, the air cool and stale with the scent of mildew. Ser Geoffrey paused here to light a lantern that hung from a hook at the foot of the stairs. A single, small hole cut in the side of the lantern allowed a thin beam of flickering golden light to emerge, providing just enough illumination for her to see the smooth-worn paving stones in the corridor at Ser Geoffrey's feet and casting the rest of her surroundings into looming shadow.

She followed mechanically, her eyes fixed on the floor and panic rising higher at every step. What if he was one of Ser Alrik's cronies? That one's pious front only barely concealed the darker desires that she suspected had been his true reason for joining the order. Bethany had caught him watching her more than once, his dark eyes hungering and calculating, but she was always careful to give no excuses at all for him to add her to his list of those that required the rite of Tranquility. What if he had decided to manufacture a reason? He could say that Ser Geoffrey caught her down here trying to escape, and Meredith would never question him.

Ser Geoffrey stopped outside a closed door, and Bethany came within a heartbeat of simply turning and racing back the way they had come.

"In here," he ordered her, pushing the door open to reveal a flickering light within and stepping aside, a gesture indicating that she should enter first. She swallowed hard, trying to will herself to calmness as she crossed the threshold, eyes warily scanning the room: a single burning torch set in a bracket on the wall, dusty crates, chests and –

"Devon!"

"Quiet!" the templar snapped, peering back into the hallway as Bethany flew into her sister's arms. "Fifteen minutes," he said tersely, clearly ill at ease. "Try and leave this room with her and –"

"I know, I know." Devon's voice was an insolent drawl, her eyes cold as ice as they met Geoffrey's gaze. "Here." She tossed him a small sack that he caught and opened immediately, tugging frantically at the drawstring. "Half now, half when we're done," she went on as he scowled and seemed on the verge of some complaint, "and if anything goes wrong, I guarantee that what you're holding will be the last you'll ever see outside of your rations. Now, go keep watch." The look that he sent her was anything but friendly, but he obeyed, pulling the door closed behind him.

"You shouldn't have talked to him like that," Bethany said, joy fading before the sudden onslaught of foreboding. "What if he –"

"He won't," Devon stopped her without a trace of doubt. "So don't worry about that." She slipped a hand beneath Bethany's chin, tilting her face toward the torchlight and peering at her closely. "How are you? Are they treating you well?"

"I'm fine." She'd have said it, even if it wasn't true, just to keep her sister from doing anything crazier than sneaking into the Gallows, but it was just as well that it was true, because Devon had always been able to tell when she was lying. "It's not the merriest place in Kirkwall, but it's cleaner than Uncle Gamlen's house, and they're kind enough. And I'll wager that I look better than you," she added reprovingly, reaching up to trace the thin scar that ran across Devon's forehead and temple. She'd lost weight, too, she noted worriedly, and – "Maker, your ear!" she gasped as she brushed back the blonde curls to reveal the scarred remnants of her sister's left ear. "Devon, what –"

"It's nothing," Devon said quickly, catching her hand and drawing it away, letting the hair fall back over the injury. "I didn't duck fast enough, that's all. Anders healed me up just fine."

"What happened to you?" Bethany demanded, the memory of those horrible days swelling up, leaving her caught between anger and tears. "That horrid little dwarf said that you were dead…all of you! I knew he was lying! How did you get here? Mother…is she all right?" The words came tumbling out, one after the other, borne on a sudden realization of just how little time they had. Fifteen minutes, Geoffrey had said.

"Beth." Devon's hands framed her face, gentle but firm, so that she was looking into her eyes, calm and confident, just as she had always been from Bethany's earliest memories. "Hush. One thing at a time. Mother is fine, and she'll be glad to know that you are, too." Callused fingers smoothed the hair away from the mage's cheeks. "As to how I got here, it's best that you don't know any details…unless you want to leave."

The offer was made almost as an afterthought, but Bethany knew that a simple nod from her was all it would take. Her big sister would spirit her out of this place, and if Ser Geoffrey tried to stop them…

"No." She shook her head firmly, not even allowing herself to think it. "I'm all right here, I really am. The Harrowing was easy; Father taught me what I needed to know, and I'm learning more now, and I'm good at it! First Enchanter Orsino says that I could become a Senior Enchanter someday, and –" She broke off, dropping her eyes. "I don't have to hide anymore. I can go to the chapel and listen to the Chant and pray and not be afraid that the templars will discover what I am. I can practice my spells and learn more without hiding away. I was so tired of hiding, running."

Shame flooded her, because she knew that if Devon had been a mage, she would have been much like Anders: always escaping, always defying the templars, while all that Bethany wanted to do was to blend in to her new environment and live without the fear that had been her constant companion since her powers had manifested when she was eight. "And Mother…I can't make her leave her home now. She gave up so much for me for so many years."

"Because she loves you," Devon replied. "She'd do it again; so would I."

"I know," Bethany said softly, "but it's time for you both to live your lives without worrying about me. This is where I belong. Now," she went on briskly before things got too maudlin, "I want to hear what happened to you! Did you really find an archdemon?"

Devon snorted. "Is that one still going around? No, we didn't find an archdemon, but there was no shortage of darkspawn. We found the thaig that Bartrand had heard about, and it was even older than he'd thought. He said that it looked nothing like Orzammar: no rune carvings, no statues of their ancestors. The place was…strange. I'd never seen a city under the ground before, so I thought maybe that was it, but then we found the idol."

"Idol?" Bethany echoed, surprised by the sudden disquiet in her sister's expression.

Devon nodded grimly. "Varric, Fenris, Anders and I found it in some kind of temple, laying on an altar. It was made of pure lyrium, and it was…wrong. All wrong. Just looking at it felt funny, like your eyes were trying to blur, and touching it –" Her hand dropped, scrubbing it on the leg of her pants as though just the memory was enough to contaminate her skin. "It was valuable, though. No doubt about that. We gave it to Bartrand to take back to camp; we were going to explore further –"

"And that's when he trapped you there," Bethany guessed.

"Yeah." Anger and sheepishness warred on her sister's face. "Maybe we should've seen it coming, but with so much of the thaig left to explore, none of us ever thought he'd screw us over just for that one thing. He sealed the door to the chamber, and the stone was so thick, we never had a chance of being heard. I guess he managed to kill the others on the way back; Aveline said that nobody came out with him."

Bethany nodded, feeling the anger bubbling in her chest. "He said you had been killed by darkspawn! I knew he was lying!"

"He almost wasn't," Devon replied. "The only way out was to go deeper in and look for another tunnel, and there were darkspawn everywhere." She gave Bethany a wry smile, though her face was pale and taut. "Evidently, word that the Blight is over hadn't made it that deep yet. We didn't have much in the way of supplies, so we ate a lot of deep stalkers – ugly bastards, but they don't taste too bad when you're hungry. Anders could provide some light when we were moving, but it was too dangerous to have light when we stopped to sleep…it might draw something, so we camped in the dark." Her expression was bleak, the fingers of one hand tracing lightly over the pale line of a scar on the opposite forearm, and her eyes focused on the bright flame of the torch. "Sometimes they came anyway."

"Maker's breath," Bethany murmured, anger giving way to remorse. "I knew I should have –"

"No!" Devon's rejoinder was emphatic, her eyes intense. "That's what made it bearable, knowing that you were safe. I could just focus on getting out of there, but I'd have gone mad trying to keep you safe, and if –" She broke off, shaking her head. "Even this," she whispered, looking up at the ceiling of the dusty room as though she could see through to the rest of the Gallows, "is better than what might have happened to you down there. We found –"

"What?" Bethany wanted to know when her sister paused, fighting with the same mix of emotions that she'd been dealing with since adolescence: gratitude and love for Devon's unwavering support, frustration and irritation at her over-protectiveness. Even before their father had died, she had guarded her younger siblings fiercely, particularly after Bethany's magic had manifested. Carver had been fearful, and more than a bit jealous of his twin's sudden ability – and the attention that it garnered from Malcolm, but Devon had been fascinated, staying close when their father taught Bethany and helping to seek out isolated places for her to practice.

After Malcolm had fallen ill, Devon had stepped into the role of family provider without hesitation, and Leandra had learned early on not to ask the source of the coin that her eldest brought home. Neither Bethany nor Carver was granted such leeway, however, and the worst thrashing of her brother's young life was received when he attempted to sneak after Devon on one of her 'errands'.

"What did you find?" she repeated impatiently, all too aware of their time slipping away.

"We found our way out," Devon answered with her old, bluff grin, and Bethany knew that she would say no more on that subject, "and enough treasure to replace the Amell fortune ten times over, but when we came out of the tunnels, we found ourselves in the mountains north of Kirkwall, and there was a fortress there…one that Varric said was not on any map he'd ever seen of the area."

"So, of course, you just had to check it out." Bethany crossed her arms and glared at her sister. Devon's curiosity had been a family joke for as long as she could remember, and had been the source of both amusement and exasperation for their parents. "You had to know that Mother would be worried sick!"

"I knew." Devon accepted the rebuke meekly. "We just intended to get a closer look at first, identify some landmarks so that we could find it again later, but there were dwarves there, Carta dwarves, and…they knew me, Beth."

"That's not exactly surprising, is it?" Bethany observed. From what she'd been able to gather, the Carta had been run out of their territory in Orzammar during the Blight. They'd been trying to set up operations in Kirkwall, against stiff opposition from both the Coterie and the city guard, with Devon and Bethany assisting Aveline often enough that they were not likely to be unknown to the dwarves.

"Not from Kirkwall," Devon replied, shaking her head. "They didn't know me personally, but they knew who I was…attacked almost as soon as they saw us, raving about needing 'the blood of the Hawke'."

"Blood of the Hawke?" A chill chased its way down Bethany's spine. "What did that mean?"

"We didn't know then, but after they'd tried to kill us a couple of times, we figured that they were planning to get it in the old fashioned way." Her expression hardened. "Then I found a letter on one of them that mentioned you: they knew that Carver was dead, and that you're a mage. That spooked me…I had to find out what was going on then." Bethany nodded, curiosity and dread warring within her. Nothing could have dragged Devon away once she perceived a threat to her family.

"And then, when we got deeper in, we found Grey Warden records that indicated that they'd built the place as a prison."

"A prison?" Bethany echoed, trying to wrap her mind around the convoluted tale that her sister was unfolding for her. "A prison for who?" _Or what?_

"Something bad…really bad…but that's not the important part," Devon said, giving her head an impatient shake and glancing toward the door. "I don't have much time. I'll tell you the whole thing someday, Beth, I promise, but for now…" She leaned forward, her eyes holding Bethany's earnestly. "Da was there, Bethy. He helped the Wardens build it, reinforce it, really. The thing – Corypheus was what it called itself – it was ancient, twisted, powerful. It was what was controlling the Carta dwarves, and it was tainted, like a darkspawn or a Warden, but it was neither, but it could control them if they got close, so they needed a mage whose blood wasn't tainted –"

"Devon!" Her sister's eyes were wide, hazed with memory, and her voice had become rambling, the words jumbled in her haste to get them out. Bethany grasped her shoulders and shook her slightly; it still felt odd to be taller than her sister, even by only a couple of inches. "Slow down! You're not making sense!"

Devon nodded, drawing a deep breath, then another,her eyes refocusing, and when she began to speak again, her voice was slow and measured. "Twenty-five years ago, the magical wards of the prison were weakening, and Corypheus was about to escape. It could manipulate the Grey Wardens through the taint in their blood, so they needed a powerful mage who was not a Warden. They chose a Kirkwall apostate with a pregnant wife, and he used his blood to rebuild the wards."

"Father?" The breath caught in Bethany's throat. "Father was a blood mage?" It couldn't be. He'd warned her so often, so firmly about the risks of such magics.

"He used blood magic for this, but I don't think that makes him a blood mage, Beth. I heard his voice." Wonder washed over Devon's features. "I heard his voice when we broke through the wards. They made him do it." Her expression hardened again. "They threatened to kill Mother if he didn't do what they told him."

"That – that's awful!" Bethany was aghast. "The Wardens are supposed to protect people! They're supposed to be heroes! Wait –" The rest of her sister's words had filtered through. "You broke through the wards? I thought they were confining …whatever it was?"

"They were," Devon confirmed, "but they were beginning to weaken again. In a few decades, they would have been gone, but Corypheus wasn't going to give the Wardens the chance to reinforce them again. Father's blood made the shields…our blood could break them." She turned her left arm over, revealing a straight, white scar across the skin of the inner forearm. "We brought down the shields around Corypheus, and then we killed it…but not before it killed Fenris."

"Oh," Bethany said softly. She'd had no great fondness for the elf, but he had agreed to help Devon, and had paid with his life. "I'm so sorry, Devon."

"He died free," Devon replied with a shrug, her expression troubled. "He and Anders both did better than I thought they would. We wouldn't have survived without Anders' healing, and Fenris died knocking Anders out of the way of a flame spell." She seemed ready to say more, but shook her head slightly. "We were lucky that more of us didn't get killed. Corypheus was powerful. He believed that he was one of the old Tevinter mages: the ones that entered the Golden City and became the first darkspawn…and I'm not so sure that he wasn't."

"But he's dead?" It was just too much to wrap her mind around, and Bethany found herself gravitating to what could be easily confirmed. "You did kill him?"

"He's dead," her sister confirmed. "And I found something that I wanted you to have." From the pouch at her hip, she withdrew something that reflected golden in the torchlight. Bethany accepted the locket, running her fingers over the intricate carvings on the surface, then gasped when she opened it.

"It's Mother and Father!" The tiny paintings set within the locket were exquisitely detailed: Malcolm Hawke looked just as she remembered him, his unruly blonde curls, blue-green eyes and cocky grin so very much like Devon's, while Leandra –

"Mother's smiling!" she exclaimed wonderingly. For as long as she could remember, her mother's face had been solemn, her hazel eyes watchful and worried. Because of her, because of the strain of trying to conceal a child who was a mage. The young woman in the picture was beautiful, her face unlined by care and her smile joyous and hopeful.

"She looks like you, doesn't she?" Devon asked with the gentle smile that few others ever saw.

"Does she?" Bethany peered at the face again. "Maybe it's easier to see in someone else. You certainly look like Father." She took one last, longing look and closed the locket, trying to give it back to Devon. "Mother should have this."

"She's already seen it," her sister replied, "and she wants you to have it." Taking it from her hands, Devon released the clasp and stepped forward, slipping the chain around Bethany's neck. "Had to replace the chain," she murmured, tucking the locket beneath the mage's scarf and robe, "but it's not like we have to worry about money now." She stepped back. "Hopefully, once they're convinced that you aren't going to turn into an abomination or run off, they'll let you visit. Mother's been redecorating the mansion; it looks incredible, and she's got a bedroom set up for you already."

"I hope I get to use it someday," Bethany replied, pushing aside the surge of wistful longing as she thought of the narrow bed in the small room that she shared with another young woman. "What about Uncle Gamlen?"

Devon snorted, her eyes narrowing. "I paid off the place in Lowtown and his other debts, and told him that he's responsible for any others he runs up. He's welcome to visit Mother, and I won't stop her from giving him money, but I'll be damned if he gets to live in the home that he threw away."

Bethany nodded, unable to help a faint twinge of guilt, but knowing that there would be no arguing with Devon on the matter, and knowing also that she was most likely right.

"And Beth?" Devon's hand tilted her chin so that the sisters were eye to eye. "If you ever do want out of here, all you have to do is say so. You know that, right?"

"I know." She did know it, and the promise in her sister's eyes, the knowledge that Devon would find a way to get her out, even if it meant spending the rest of their lives on the run, was almost as good as being free.

Almost.

"I know," she repeated, embracing her sister once more, feeling Devon's arms tighten slightly at the faint but firm knock on the door.

"I have to go," she made herself say, pushing away gently as she heard the door open behind her, saw Devon's expression go flat and unfriendly, staring over her shoulder at Ser Geoffrey.

"It's been twenty minutes," the templar warned them.

"She'll be right out," Devon replied, meeting his glare without flinching. At last, his eyes dropped and he stepped back into the hallway.

"Devon…" Bethany murmured reprovingly.

"I know, I know." Devon looked properly penitent for all of two seconds, then mischief won out. "Wouldn't want you to miss all the fun, anyway."

Bethany's stomach began to flutter, half dread, half anticipation. "What did you do?"

"You'll see," Devon promised with a grin, kissing her cheek lightly. "Be well, Beth, and don't forget."

"I won't," Bethany answered, accepting the small pouch that her sister pressed into her hand, feeling the small cylinders inside the muslin. Lyrium. It was no secret that many of the templars were addicted to the stuff, obtaining what they could from the black market to supplement their standard ration.

"Give that to your escort."

Bethany nodded. "Tell Isabela and Aveline that I'm sorry," she blurted. There was so much more that she wanted to say, so much that she wanted to ask, but they were out of time. "They tried to stop me, they really did, but I was so scared, so angry… "

"I know, Beth," Devon assured her gently. "So do they. Now…go." She struggled visibly with the last word as she stepped back, her eyes shining too bright in the torchlight.

_Don't go. Don't leave me._ The words hovered unspoken on Bethany's tongue as fear swirled through her, held back not by the thought that they might not be answered but by the sure knowledge that they would be. All their lives, Devon had protected her; now, she had to protect Devon by keeping silent and accepting the fate that the Maker had decreed for her. Lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, she gave her sister a last smile before turning to the door.

"I love you, Beth." Devon's voice was choked with tears, and Bethany didn't dare look back.

"I love you, too," she whispered, opening the door and stepping quickly into the hall. The waiting templar glanced uneasily away from the tears that streaked her face, his eyes dropping to the pouch that she held. She passed it to him, using the time that he took anxiously examining the contents to gather herself. She couldn't return to the halls above with her eyes swollen and reddened.

"Have you any plausible reason for our absence?" she asked him.

"Aye," he replied. "There are archival scrolls stored on the floor above this one. You have expressed an interest in the history of the Circle in Kirkwall, I believe?"

Bethany nodded. She had discussed it with her teachers often enough, though she was a bit surprised that the templar would know. But then, why not? The order made it their business to track every sneeze, hiccup or whisper in the Circle, after all. She only hoped that no one caught on to the reason for her interest: the hidden scribblings of a long dead group of mages who called themselves the Band of Three. The handful of documents that she had found in their travels in and around Kirkwall seemed to indicate that the City of Chains had been built by the Tevinters with a much darker purpose: one designed to support the extensive use of blood magic. There had to be a reason there were so many blood mages in Kirkwall, and Bethany intended to find out.

Ser Geoffrey led her up the stairs to the archives, then waited as she selected a few scrolls, taking care, she noticed, to position himself directly in front of a particular set of shelves whose scrolls looked to be exceptionally old. Bethany knew better than to question or try to get around him, but she did make a mental note of the location of those shelves.

Scrolls in hand, she trailed the templar up the stair; when they emerged, they found the halls deserted, though the Knight-Commander's strident voice was clearly audible in the distance.

"Mage Hawke, where have you been?" The male voice distracted her as she was trying to make out Meredith's words, and she turned to see Knight-Captain Cullen bearing down on them. She liked Cullen…as well as she could like a templar, anyway: he was honorable, and treated the mages fairly, though it was plain that he viewed them with no small amount of trepidation. He was from Ferelden, and Bethany had heard rumors of the horrors he had endured when blood mages had taken over the Circle there, so she supposed that she couldn't blame him. That he was young and handsome didn't hurt either, though that effect was somewhat mitigated by his perpetually grim expression…grimmer than usual at the moment.

"Ser Geoffrey was kind enough to escort me to the lower archives to look for some scrolls for my research," she told him, her voice perfectly level. Cullen's eyes went from her face to the scrolls that she carried to Geoffrey, who nodded his affirmation of her story, and the breakneck rhythm of her heart slowed a bit.

"All right, then." The mantle of authority slipped somewhat, the hint of stammering nervousness that had nothing to do with her being a mage slowing his words. "Report to the mages' quarters, please, and Ser Geoffrey, there will be a general inspection in the courtyard in ten minutes."

"What's wrong, Ser?" Geoffrey wanted to know. "Is Alrik still missing?" His eyes widened as soon as he spoke, and the return of Cullen's forbidding expression made it plain that he'd spoken out of turn.

"That's not a subject to be discussed right now, templar," Cullen said gruffly. "Mage Hawke, I must ask that you not repeat what you have heard here."

"As you wish, Knight-Captain," she replied dutifully, carefully schooling her expression. Alrik gone missing? She'd not seen him for a couple of days, but then, she never actually looked for him. His loss certainly wouldn't be mourned among the mages. Was that the surprise that Devon had promised? No, it couldn't be. Her sister had no knowledge of Alrik's actions…had she?

She pondered this as she left the two templars, her feet taking the now familiar route to the mages' quarters by instinct.

"Mage Hawke." Bethany glanced up to see an elvish woman with the brand of a sun on her forehead. "All mages are to report to their quarters, by order of the Knight-Commander." The oddly atonal quality of the woman's voice sent a shiver down Bethany's spine that she was careful not to show. The Tranquil were as they were through no fault of their own, and she could never quite stop wondering if, under the façade of emotionlessness, a trapped soul was screaming for release.

"Thank you, Jeanne, I know," she replied politely, and because no one else was around, she dared to ask, "Have you any idea why?"

"A bucket of urine was propped over the door to the Knight-Commander's office," Jeanne replied, showing neither shock nor amusement at the news. "She was thoroughly drenched, and most displeased, and believed that a mage was responsible, but with the exception of you, all the mages' whereabouts have been accounted for."

"I was in the archives with Ser Geoffrey," Bethany replied, unable to help a flutter of anxiety as she repeated the lie, even though she knew that the Tranquil would not question any statement, unless there was a glaring logic fault.

"Ah." Jeanne was silent for a moment, processing this, then, "Then it is not possible for a mage to have placed the bucket."

"No," Bethany agreed, biting down hard on the inside of her cheek. There weren't many in Kirkwall who could have gotten into the Gallows with a bucket full of piss, placed it and gotten out again without being caught, and fewer still who would. "I should get on to the mages' quarters, Jeanne. Good day."

"Of course." Jeanne walked in the opposite direction as Bethany obediently continued on to the mages' quarters, as she had been instructed. There was much more to Devon's audacious stunt than a simple prank. She could all but hear her sister's voice in her ear, razored steel beneath the mirth.

_I_ _**will** _ _come for you. They can't stop me._

"I know, sister," she whispered, praying to the Maker that it would never come to that. "I know."


	6. A Man For Man-Hands

"So..." Devon stretched lazily on her belly, propping her chin on the heel of a hand and giving her bed-mate a sly look. "What is it with you and the qunari?"

_Damn it!_

If Isabela had seen Hawke do it once, she'd seen it a hundred times over the years: chatting it up, seemingly paying no real attention to what the other person was saying, only to come out of the blue with an offhanded query about some detail that her target had tried to skate over. It worked more times than not, but she wasn't supposed to be subjected to the tactic, doubly sneaky coming as it did on the heels of a round of sex that had left mind and body cocooned in an utterly sated haze.

She glowered at Hawke, knowing full well that it would do no good. It had been almost a week since the last time she had bailed out at the gates of the qunari compound, but it hadn't been the first time. Honestly, she'd been expecting to have questions asked sooner or later.

Just not now.

"I just don't like being around them," she offered, rolling to her back for her own stretch, hoping to offer a distraction that the other rogue couldn't refuse. "Maker's balls, Hawke, they don't even have sex! No wonder they never smile."

No such luck. "They have to have sex, Bela," Devon reasoned. "How else would there be any little qunari?"

"Have you ever _seen_ a little qunari?" the pirate challenged her.

"Good point," Hawke conceded.

"And do you think they have those horns when they're born?" Isabela went on. "Maybe that's why they don't have sex: none of the women want to get pregnant and have those damn horns jabbing them in the nethers when they give birth!"

"Haven't seen a female qunari, either," Hawke observed.

"And they're definitely not frequenting the Rose. Sheep?" Isabela wondered, "Although with their size, it would probably be cattle -"

"Thank you for the image that has now seared itself on the back of my eyelids," Devon muttered with a grimace.

"You started the conversation," she reminded her smugly.

"Yes, I did." The look that Hawke gave her made it plain that she hadn't forgotten that her original question remained unanswered, but she did not pursue it...for now. Instead, she rolled out of bed and reached for her clothes.

"Killed the mood, did I?" the pirate joked, in no real hurry to move. Hawke's bed in the Hightown mansion she'd bought two years ago was considerably larger and more luxurious than her bed at the Hanged Man. The only real downside was the need to control the noise level. The first time she'd started getting really loud, Leandra had marched in, emptied a pitcher of cold water over the both of them and marched out again without a word.

"Qunari and cows isn't exactly the most stimulating pillow talk we've had lately," Devon drawled, pulling a tunic over her head, "but Aveline sent a message asking me to drop by the barracks today."

"Oh, goody." Devon and Man-Hands had patched up the rift that Bethany's fate had opened between them; the Guard-Captain routinely asked Hightown's newest noble for assistance with things that Kirkwall's finest couldn't handle, and Hawke always agreed. Money was no longer a concern; she picked and chose with the rest of Kirkwall when it came to the jobs that she took on now, but when a friend called, she was always there.

Including for Isabela, which meant that the pirate couldn't bitch about dashing off to do a favor for the big girl. "I can't remember," she began, reaching off the side of the bed for her blouse and corset, "do I have any warrants out for my arrest at the moment?"

"Like I'd know?" Hawke shrugged, looking unconcerned. "Ask Aveline when we get there. If she arrests you, I'll just bail you out."

"Aww. How sweet." She rolled her eyes, knowing that the 'we' meant that she was being dragged along, telling herself that was the only reason she was going...that and the chance to bait the big girl, of course.

* * *

"All right...I can fix this." Aveline paced back and forth behind her desk, looking as agitated as the pirate had ever seen her. This visit had been odd from the get-go. First, she'd had the two of them deliver a gift to Donnic...if a couple of copper plates embossed with flowers could be considered a gift, then she'd had them spy on him after the new duty roster had been posted, and seemed crushed when he had reacted with displeasure to a cushy patrol in Hightown.

From her vantage point beside a bookcase, Isabela watched the redhead with narrowed eyes.

It couldn't be...

"I need..." She stopped, looking suddenly resolved. "I need three goats and a sheaf of wheat." She turned to Hawke, whose mouth had dropped open. "You'll take them to his mother."

_His mother? Is she..._

"A dowry?" Devon crossed her arms, looking skeptical. "Don't you think you might want to let him in on this before you -"

"Hold a moment." She couldn't keep quiet. She just couldn't. "You're sweet on the boy, aren't you?"

Green eyes narrowed dangerously, the strong chin tightening. "So help me, whore, I will break you."

Isabela was too busy gloating to give much attention to the threat. "Oh, this is glorious! All this flailing is her idea of courtship! Can we put a hold on this long enough for me to start a betting pool at the Hanged Man?"

An ugly flush suffused the fair skin...red really wasn't her color. "If you breathe a word of this -"

"She won't," Devon stepped in quickly, giving the pirate a rare reproving look, which was odd. Normally, she was as quick to needle the big girl as Isabela. Equally odd was the cautious, almost gentle tone that followed. "Aveline, why didn't you just tell me?"

"Tell you what?" the Guard-Captain demanded tersely. "That a grown woman can't speak her mind? I've been focused on being Captain for so long, I've forgotten how to be anything else."

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Isabela ignored another warning glance from Hawke, "but weren't you already married once?"

"That was a long time ago," Aveline muttered. "It was easier then...or seemed to be." The pain that rippled across her features kept Isabela from delivering any of the number of clever remarks that immediately offered themselves.

"And you've been alone since we came to Kirkwall?" Devon asked, still in that oddly careful voice, but Aveline's silent nod of confirmation overcame the pirate's brief flirtation with restraint.

"Wait...you've gone without for four _years_?" She shook her head in disbelief. Four _days_ was unthinkable; she'd gone for three once, but she'd been in jail. "You must creak like a rusty hinge!"

"Many people have their lives because of me," Aveline replied stiffly.

"But poor you, no life of your own," Isabela shot back, determined to pierce that ice-princess shell. Nobody could go without sex for four years and not miss it. Nobody!

The big girl's nostril's flared as she tried for a haughty look. "We both place others above ourselves. I happen to do it clothed."

Not bad, but she could do better with the proper incentive. The pirate swaggered forward with her best smirk. "You're splitting hairs, but wishing someone would split yours," she offered, glad that Merrill wasn't around to spoil the flow by asking for an explanation.

Aveline's face went brick red again, her hands curling into impotent fists. "I've had enough of your loose lips," she growled balefully. "Like many, I'm sure."

Maker's balls, Kitten would have needed a dictionary! "Oh, touché !" she sneered, taking another step forward so that they were nose to nose. "Prig!"

"Slattern!"

"If I might put things back on track?" Hawke shouldered between them adroitly, with an apologetic glance for Aveline and a pointed look for Isabela, who obligingly returned ( _not_ retreated, thank you) to her spot beside the bookcase, mentally chalking up a point for her side. "Aveline, it's not like you to be at a loss for words."

The big girl shrugged awkwardly. "It's just...fear, plain and simple," she said at last, clearly hating the admission. "What about you and Isabela?" A disdainful flick of the green eyes toward her corner. "I know she hasn't got two thoughts to rub together, but surely the danger of your lives must worry you?"

"Me and -" Devon shot a perplexed look over her shoulder, but the pirate couldn't give her much help. If Lady Man-Hands thought that rutting with someone to pass the time was the same as marriage, that explained why it had been so long since she'd gotten laid. "I don't think we're exactly the best example."

"Unless you and Donnic are going to take each other to the Blooming Rose," Isabela put in, aiming for one of the myriad gaps in the big girl's armor.

Instead, the look that Aveline turned on her seemed almost amused. "Ah, yes...that. How long has it been since you two have done that? Or since you've slept with anyone besides each other?"

Ridiculous! Isabela opened her mouth to snap off a goading response, closed it again. Damn...how long _had_ it been? When she realized that she'd actually have to count back, she gave up, casting an uncomfortable glance in Hawke's direction, all too aware of the smirk on Aveline's face. "Making up for your own lack of a sex life by keeping track of someone else's? That's pretty pathetic, big girl. Have you had your guards following us around?" The words lacked bite, and she knew it, watched them slide off like poorly thrown knives skating off of plate.

"I leave that to Varric; he doesn't miss much, and if he happens to mention it to me..." Man-Hands shrugged with a smug little smile that irritated the hell out of Isabela. She _hated_ it when people gloated for the wrong reason!

Hawke saved the situation. "That's just a matter of convenience, Aveline," she said, dismissing the whole notion with an easy wave of her hand, and relief washed through the pirate. Yes, that was it: convenience. They were both busy women, with no time to waste on bad sex, and if they knew where to find a fuck that was always mind-blowingly, gloriously satisfying and exhausting, why not take advantage? "And you're changing the subject. Why don't I just grab Donnic and drag him in here, get this out in the open once and for all?"

That did the trick. "And tell him what?" Aveline demanded, looking mortified at the thought. "That his Captain is ordering him to...to..." She shook her head. "It wouldn't work."

"Then take him out, get him drunk," Isabela advised her. "Shame is a great equalizer." And a few pints just might loosen up her legs enough to actually get someone between them.

"Take him out?" Man-Hands was evidently terrified enough by the suggestion that she forgot who was making it. "As simple as that?"

Before Isabela could point out that even simpler would be to just corner him in the barracks and mount him, Devon replied, "It can be, yes."

The warrior looked indecisive for a moment, then her jaw squared the same way it did just before she charged a difficult opponent with sword and shield. "All right, then. I need you to invite Donnic to the Hanged Man tonight, but don't mention me! Make something up: Tell him it's a group thing, or a surprise, anything to get him there. He's not like the others. I don't want him to know he's meeting the Captain."

"That being the surprise part?" Isabela wanted to know. "Or is that where we tie him up before he can get away?" Sarcasm was going to get her nowhere, however, because Hawke was already nodding in agreement.

"All right, Aveline. If that's the way you want it, we'll give it a go."

 _We?_ Isabela glared at Devon, but the Fereldan was already on her way out of the office to find Donnic.

* * *

"I thought the rest of the Guard was supposed to be here?" Donnic craned his neck, looking around curiously, managing to miss Aveline, who had concealed herself at the top of the stairs, occasionally peeping around the bannister, then popping back out of sight.

Devon chuckled weakly. "Plans change, apparently."

He nodded slowly, started to stand. "I really should get back -"

"Oh, not yet!" Isabela had decided that since she had been given no choice in the matter, she might as well enjoy the ride. "Have another drink, at least!" He lowered himself to the bench with obvious reluctance, and Isabela lifted her hand, signaling Norah to bring another round.

And another.

And another.

And the mighty Guard-Captain kept pacing agitatedly on the second floor landing, starting down the steps, then diving back up again, and Hawke's patience visibly kept wearing thinner and thinner.

To say nothing of Donnic's.

"So, Aveline," Devon began after over an hour had passed, clearly deciding to take matters into her own hands. "She's great, isn't she?"

"Serah Hawke," Donnic cut her off, his tone one of a man trying to be tactful when he doesn't want to be, "if this is about you two using your relationship with the Captain to get me into bed with the pair of you, it's not going to work. You're both quite...pretty, but I'm the one woman type. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Rising, he headed for the door, leaving Hawke with her mouth ajar and Isabela staring after him thoughtfully, wondering if the gauntlet that had been thrown down was worth taking up. He wasn't bad looking, after all, and nicely muscular.

Aveline slunk down the stairs miserably. "I couldn't do it," she explained, though that was obvious enough. "What did he say?"

"He thinks we're trying to get him into bed," Hawke replied, gesturing between herself and the pirate irritably.

Aveline heaved a sigh. "I'm an idiot."

"I hope you're not waiting on me to disagree," Devon told her, considerably surlier than she'd been in the barracks. "What are you going to do now?"

"Go back to the barracks," the big girl replied with a disconsolate shrug. "Or Ferelden. Or the deepest hole I can find."

"You've never been the hiding type," Hawke chided her, to no avail.

"I know, all right!" Aveline exclaimed in exasperation, "But I freeze up! The only place I'm not a mess is on patrol, and killing highwaymen isn't exactly conducive to banter!"

Isabela rolled her eyes. "And here come the excuses."

Aveline glared at her. "I will not risk -"

"And that's the problem," the pirate cut her off with a glare of her own. Granted, a few hours of drinking was far from an onerous task, but it was the principle of the thing. "Risk, or so help me, I'll bed the man myself."

Violence sparked in the green eyes, and Hawke stepped between them again.

"Schedule a patrol with him. The Wounded Coast has some nice, secluded spots, doesn't it?"

"Oh, perfectly secluded," Aveline agreed in a voice heavy with sarcasm. "Just me, Donnic, a few dozen brigands, a pack of wild dogs and a camp of those damned Tal-Vashoth for variety. Perfect for romance."

Devon sighed. "We'll clear the way," she promised, elbowing Isabela in the side when she opened her mouth to protest. Drinks at the Hanged Man were one thing, but this - "All you'll have to do is talk."

The look of almost pathetic gratitude the big girl wore put a cork in any further protests. "You're a good friend, Devon. Thank you. I'll...think of something to say, I'm sure."

* * *

The week that it took Man-Hands to arrange the patrol – or work up her nerve, most likely – was spent by Isabela bedding anyone but Devon Hawke. She even ran into Hawke one night at the Blooming Rose; the Fereldan had given her a cheeky grin and wink as she led her evening's partner up the stairs. Isabela had returned to her own carousing without another thought...certainly not any thought of going upstairs to join her.

But few days later, there she was, along with Merrill and Varric, helping Hawke kill everything that moved along the Wounded Coast.

"Dammit, Hawke, you owe me for this," she muttered, wiping qunari blood from her boots. "These stains aren't coming out."

"I'll buy you another pair," Hawke replied, eyes already looking ahead for the next hazard. "Come on." Falcon bounded ahead immediately; the mabari was enjoying himself immensely, but the pirate wasn't nearly as amused.

"Not until you tell me why you have us out here busting our asses trying to get Lady Man-Hands laid," she retorted, planting her feet in the sand and crossing her arms.

The sudden flash of anger in Hawke's eyes was as unexpected as a white squall. "If you don't want to be here, leave," she snapped, turning to follow Falcon. The pirate stared after her, feeling her own ire rising, along with the urge to do just that: get out of here, head back to the Hanged Man for a few pints, then over to the Rose for friendlier company.

Then Merrill was chasing after Devon with a look of distress that meant Isabela wouldn't be going anywhere, damn it. "Hawke! Hawke, wait! We do want to be here, we just don't understand -" She broke off, looking helplessly between Varric and Isabela. "Actually, I don't understand. What does it mean to get someone laid?" The pirate sighed, giving the elf a patient look, and Merrill's face lit suddenly. "Oh! It's about sex, isn't it?"

"No, it's not about sex." Hawke had stopped to let them catch up, plainly forcing herself to patience for Merrill's sake. "Do you really think that's all Aveline wants?"

"It's what she needs," Isabela muttered rebelliously as a new suspicion rose: was Hawke sweet on Aveline? Not that she would mind if that were the case. She would miss the sex, because she seriously doubted that the big girl was the sharing type, but it was just sex, and she could get that anywhere, right? But if Hawke wanted Man-hands, why was she trying to get Donnic into her pants? Fucking by proxy? Stupid...and not like Hawke at all. "Maybe Donnic just isn't interested, Hawke. Why don't you do the honors?"

"Me and...Aveline?" Hawke was looking at her with an astonished expression that didn't seem to be feigned. "Bela, have you had a head injury that I don't know about?" She screwed her eyes shut suddenly with a groan. "Maker, that's going to be popping into my head at the worst possible moments for the next week!" Eyes opened, glaring at the pirate. "Dammit, Bela, that's as bad as the qunari and cows!"

"As...interesting as that sounds, I think we're getting off topic." Varric glanced between them with raised eyebrows, clearly wondering if the real back-story could be better than what his own imagination could concoct. "Hawke, I like Aveline, myself, but you have to admit, this -" A theatrical gesture with one hand indicated the surroundings and their current mission, " - is a rather extreme way of matchmaking. Why is this so important to you?"

"She's my friend!" Hawke shot back immediately. Varric just watched her steadily, and her eyes dropped, a guarded expression slipping over her features. "And I killed her husband," she added in a lower voice, her gaze turning to the sea.

Isabela blinked. Not what she'd been expecting to hear. "You...what?" Sidestepping into the other rogue's field of vision, she angled her head until their eyes were forced to meet. "You're talking about Wesley, right? I thought he died from the darkspawn taint?"

"He was dying," Devon replied, deep-ocean eyes sliding away, toward the horizon. "It would have been slow, painful. No cure, and if we'd tried to carry him, the darkspawn would have been on us before we'd made it a mile. He knew it, knew what had to be done, but Aveline couldn't do it." Her gaze refocused, back in the present. "So I did." She shrugged, trying for no big deal but not quite making it.

"Oh, Hawke." Merrill's eyes were bright with tears, and she threw her arms around the Fereldan. "That must have been awful for you!"

"It wasn't a treat," Devon admitted, returning the hug with the gentleness that she reserved for the elf alone, now that Bethany was gone. The pirate knew that Hawke had managed to visit her sister a few times in the Gallows, both in secret and, in the last year, in supervised visits, along with Leandra, but she took no one else along on such occasions. "It was worst on Aveline. She really loved him, and he loved her. You could see it in the way they looked at each other. It...reminded me of the way Mother and Father were before he died." She shrugged again, her features unreadable. "She just...deserves some happiness, that's all."

Varric nodded slowly. "All right, Hawke. We're with you."

There was that damned 'we' again, but Isabela decided against protesting further. "Let's get this done, then," she announced briskly, scanning the terrain ahead and pointing at a thin column of smoke rising from the trees. "Campfire. Tal-Vashoth, most likely." Since the qunari weren't afraid of anything, they seldom made any attempts to hide their presence. It made tracking them easy.

On the other hand, there was a good reason they weren't afraid of anything.

"You all right?" Hawke asked her as Varric began to methodically loot the bodies...more from habit than any real need. He'd bought the Hanged Man with his share of the loot from the expedition, and his information brokering business was as profitable as ever.

"Fine," she growled, wincing as Merrill tightened the bandage around her upper arm. "But I'd better get one of the kids named after me."

Hawke smirked, despite the bruise that was rapidly turning most of the left side of her face, from temple to chin, an impressive array of blues and purples. "Right. You really think she's going to name a child Whore? Or Harlot?"

"Slattern, maybe?" the pirate suggested with a snicker. "Can't you just picture the first day of school?"

"I think the lovebirds are coming now," Varric put in, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder toward the main path, hidden from view by the rise of the rocky slope and the trees.

"Come on," Isabela exclaimed, grabbing Hawke by the hand and tugging. "I want to hear what Man-Hands considers a sweet nothing."

Hawke followed, muttering some nonsense about not being seen, and they crept along until they found a spot behind some boulders just above the path. Crouching, the pirate could hear the big girl's voice running on at length, with an occasional short reply in Donnic's deeper tones.

The indistinct voices gradually resolved into words:

" - but if you don't quench the blade properly, it'll never hold a decent edge." Aveline was in full lecture mode, her tone didactic and determined. "The right sword for the right job, don't you agree, Guardsman Donnic?"

Any hope that this might be some coded form of dirty talk unique to the guard was quashed by Donnic's reply. "Hmmm? What?" He sounded as though he were being shaken from a doze. ""Oh...yes. Most definitely, Captain."

"What?" Evidently forgetting her earlier warning about being seen, Hawke tried to shoot to her feet, stopped only by Isabela's hand on her shoulder. "I'm going to kill her!" the rogue fumed, all her tender concern shot straight to the Void.

"Hsssh!" the pirate reminded her before turning back to the disaster unfolding below, unable to look away. Was it really possible for two individuals to be this clueless? Maybe she shouldn't suggest having one of the progeny named after her. How intelligent could the children of these two be, assuming they were ever even able to figure out the necessary steps? Did she really want the name of Rivain's famous pirate queen attached to a drooling idiot?

"Yes, well." Man-Hands sighed in resignation. "Everything seems to be quiet here, Guardsman. Why don't we turn around and -"

"Oh, no, you don't!" Both guards jumped in unison at Hawke's bellow, and Aveline's look of panic shifted to alarm at the sight of the rogue's face.

"Maker's breath, Devon, what happened?"

"What _happened_?" Hawke glared at her. "What _didn't_ happen is a better question! I spent the whole damn afternoon killing everything that draws breath on this part of the coast, risking _their_ lives," a sweep of her hand encompassed Isabela, Varric and Merrill, "and I _didn't_ do it so that you could discuss _blacksmithing_!" She jabbed a finger at Donnic, who took a half step back, his expression one of a man who had just been handed a snake that looked poisonous. "Now _tell_ him!"

"Tell me what?" Donnic looked from Hawke to Aveline, who had gone from ghost pale to brick red in the space of a few heartbeats. "Captain?"

The big girl's mouth worked soundlessly, and Hawke's exasperated glare shifted to him. "Andraste's tits, man, do I have to draw you a picture? Or have Varric write it up in a book?"

"Hawke!" It was Aveline's turn to bellow, while Donnic's eyes widened. Varric's books were legendary in the barracks, with no end of arguing over who was the inspiration for Guardsman Donnen Brennicovick in the 'Hard In Hightown' serials. No way he hadn't gotten _that_ point.

"I...think I should return to the barracks," he managed, executing an awkward salute. "Captain...Serrah Hawke..." He paused, seeming to debate whether or not to include Isabela, Merrill and Varric in the salute, but opted for a quick nod and a simple but hasty retreat instead.

"I think you may have frightened him, Hawke," Merrill observed, peering after him with a worried look.

"Frightened him?" Aveline had finally found her voice. "I'll be lucky if that's all! I've got to get back and talk to him before he files a complaint or...or..."

"Joins a monastery?" Isabela suggested cheerfully.

"Shut up, whore!" the guard snarled, storming a few steps up the beach, then spinning and pointing at Hawke. "And I'll see you in my office in two hours!"

"It had better be to _pay_ me for doing _your_ damn job!" Hawke roared at her back.

* * *

_Six Months Later_

"He proposed? Aveline, that is marvelous!" Leandra threw her arms around the big girl, heedless of the ever present armor. "I'm so very happy for you! When is the wedding to be?"

"Springtime, I think," Aveline replied with the smile that was seen more often now that she was getting laid regularly. "We've decided to honeymoon in Orlais, and I've heard that the cherry blossoms in Val Royeaux are lovely at that time of year."

"Perfect!" Leandra exclaimed, stepping back and beaming. "We can have the ceremony in the garden, then!"

"Here?" Aveline looked surprised, then pleased, then flustered. "Leandra, that is very kind of you, but I couldn't -"

"We insist," Hawke put in with a lopsided smile. The pair of them had nearly come to blows in the Captain's office that first afternoon; only Donnic's timely entrance had interrupted the incipient fracas, but after their private 'talk', the big girl's head had been so far in the clouds that Hawke could have suggested stealing the statue of Andraste from the Chantry and gotten no more than a happy nod and a murmur of assent.

Of course, she'd made no such suggestion. Damned waste of a priceless opportunity, as far as Isabela was concerned, but at least things had returned to normal afterward...the sole exception being Hawke's confiscation of the utter masterpiece of friend-fiction that Isabela and Varric had been collaborating on.

"It would honor me if you would allow me to do this for you," Leandra told the big girl. "You are as dear to me as if you were one of my own children, and -" The look she shot Isabela and Hawke was filled with an affectionate exasperation, "it's looking likely that you're my one chance at having grandchildren to spoil."

Grandchildren? The pirate exchanged a wary look with Hawke, and they immediately edged apart. They'd let it happen again, damn it: relying on each other for sex, and of course, everyone was leaping to all the wrong conclusions...again.

"Mother," Devon murmured, trying to ignore the smirk that Man-Hands was wearing. "It's not like that. Bela and I are just -"

"It's all right, dear," Leandra assured her, giving her and Isabela a warm smile that made the pirate want to squirm. "I just want you to be happy."

"I am," the rogue assured her mother. "I'm just not the settling down type, that's all."

"Whatever you say, dear." The glance that she shared with Aveline was so knowing that Isabela wanted to scream, or better yet, to commit some completely improper act – _not_ with Hawke, thank you – to demonstrate to all concerned that she was a pirate: rude, uncouth, uncivilized and, above all else, independent.

But she didn't, because Leandra had never shown her anything but kindness – even when she had added her 'embellishment' to the stair bannister one night when she'd been drunk. (Mind you, that could have been just about any given night, which only proved her point, as far as Isabela was concerned.) The woman was graciousness personified, noble in a way that most of the residents of Hightown would never come within spitting distance of.

Isabela didn't waste time any more moping over how different her life would have been if her own mother had been anything like Leandra Hawke, since if that had been the case, she would have likely remained in Rivain, gotten married, had babies, and had a completely dull life, with absolutely no idea of all the excitement she had missed. But she did accord Devon's mother a degree of respect that she gave no one else...including Hawke herself.

"What about you, Leandra?" she teased the Hawke matriarch, deciding that a change of subject was in order. "All these strapping young nobles you've been introducing Devon to might appreciate the charms of a more experienced woman." The harshness of a life of poverty had left its mark, true, but the remnants of what had to have been a jaw-dropping youthful beauty still shone through, and a couple of years spent in her ancestral home (and out of her brother's Lowtown hovel) had done wonders for her.

"Bela!" Hawke shot her a pained look. "That is my mother you're talking about!"

Leandra laughed. "Nice to see that there is still something that can scandalize my eldest," she remarked, a sudden gleam of mischief making her look startlingly similar to her daughter, though the family consensus was that Devon had gotten most of her looks from Malcolm. "It would be a shame to let those 'strapping young nobles' go to waste, wouldn't it?"

"Mother!" Hawke gasped in shock, glaring at Isabela. Leandra's delighted laugh rang out again, and the pirate found herself almost ludicrously pleased at having been the initiator.

"Relax, Hawke," she chided the other rogue. "Your mother deserves some fun, doesn't she? Sadie at the Rose is almost sixty and still going strong...and making good coin in the bargain!"

"Are you suggesting that my mother work at the Blooming Rose?" Hawke's eyes were actually bulging! If she'd known that this would get such a good rise out of her friend, she'd have exploited it years ago!

"That probably is a bit much, Bela." Leandra was blushing now, though the spark of mirth still danced in her eyes. "But I'll admit that all the romance around these days has me thinking that perhaps I'm not too old for some romance myself." The laughter faded from her eyes, uncertainty taking its place as she added, "I'll always love your father, Devon, but -"

"He'd want you to be happy, Mother," Hawke hastened to assure her, "and so do I. Do you...have anyone in particular in mind?" She was trying so hard to sound casual and failing so miserably. Oh, but the next few weeks were going to be fun!

The devilish gleam was back. "Well, the Martinet twins were quite the handsome pair..." When both Hawke and Man-Hands gaped in unison, she actually giggled. "Don't worry, dear. They are nice to look at, but I'll leave the shocking of the Kirkwall nobility to you. I think that a gentleman closer to my own age will suit me nicely."

Devon regarded her mother suspiciously. "You've already met somebody, haven't you?" she blurted. "Who is he?"

Leandra sighed. "We've only just met, and I was hoping for the chance to get to know him better before you start terrorizing him."

"Terrorize?" Hawke tried to look indignant, but Leandra only chuckled, patting her cheek affectionately.

"Don't worry, dear," she said again. "If it looks likely that we'll be having a double wedding in the springtime, you'll be the first to know."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This quest line was easily my favorite of the companion quests; it injected a bit of much-needed levity into the overall plot and included some priceless banter between Aveline and Isabela that really illustrated the complexity of the relationship between the two.
> 
> In the story, it offered me the chance to better delineate the relationship between Devon and Aveline. I always thought that Hawke looked at Aveline as the older sister that she'd never been able to enjoy: someone to scandalize and harass, but also someone who could be depended on and who in turn she'd go to the mat for. I'll probably get a chapter in from Aveline's POV at some point, but so far nothing has presented itself.


	7. The Cruelest Cut

 

White lilies.

They stood on a table in the den, carefully arranged in a crystal vase, the blooms bobbing gently in response to faint air currents in the room...but to Isabela, it looked as though they were laughing, mocking them.

It couldn't be...could it?

"It can't be." Hawke had gone ghost pale, her eyes darting from the flowers to Bodahn and back.

The dwarf's face was apprehensive, not knowing what precisely was wrong. He and his peculiar son, Sandal, had been sent back from the Deep Roads expedition early after the boy had wandered off and Devon had defied Bartrand's edict to track the lad down and bring him back. As a result, the pair hadn't been around to share the fate of everyone else who had been present when they had located the ancient thaig.

Gratitude had led Bodahn to offer his services to the Hawke family; he was fiercely loyal to Devon, and Sandal, though not quite right in the head, had a talent for working lyrium enchantments into weapons and armor that came in quite handy. "I – I thought they must be from her suitor," Bodahn said falteringly. "She seemed pleased to receive them." The suitor that none of them had ever seen, though it had been nearly a month since Leandra had first spoken of him.

"It can't be," Hawke repeated, her haunted gaze turning to the pirate and Aveline. "We killed him. We killed DuPuis, and he was the one killing the women...wasn't he?"

"Of course he was," Isabela said immediately. He _had_ to have been: they'd caught the bastard red-handed with his next victim, and practicing blood magic on her to boot. All his flimsy excuses about finding his sister's killer and kidnapping the woman to protect her had just been so much bullshit. When they'd pushed him, he had attacked, and they had killed him. Gascard DuPuis had been the monster stalking the women of Kirkwall, and he was dead, so the flowers _couldn't_ be from the killer.

Right?

"It has to be a coincidence, Devon." Man-hands tried to sound authoritative, but her face was the color of chalk. "I'll instruct the Guard to look for her."

Hawke nodded. "Go to the Hanged Man," she instructed Bodahn. "Find Varric. Tell him what has happened, and tell him that I need his people searching for my mother. A thousand gold to the one who finds her safe." Her eyes flicked back to Aveline. "That applies to the Guard, as well."

Aveline shook her head. "It's their job, Devon."

Hawke waved her off. "Like you said, it's probably nothing," she said, her expression saying another thing altogether. "I've got the money to throw away if that's the case, but if not -"She swallowed hard, looking down. "Go," she ordered them curtly, striding toward the stairs and taking them up two at a time.

Bodahn hurried out, but Aveline hesitated. "You'll stay with her?" she asked Isabela.

The pirate nodded. "Like a bad rash,"she quipped with a smirk that she knew wouldn't make it to her eyes.

Aveline left, and moments later Hawke came down the stairs with her mabari at her heels and a skirt of Leandra's in one hand. Isabela followed her out the door, watched as she knelt in front of the hound.

"Mother may be in trouble," she told him, holding the fabric up for him to sniff. Falcon whined, regarding her somberly, then burying his nose in the cloth. "Find her, boy." The mabari wheeled and charged down the steps to the street, his nose to the ground, sniffing intently and jostling aside men and women on the Hightown streets as he passed. Indignant cries rose up, then stilled as one person after another got a look at Hawke's face.

Falcon paused, then began to circle widely, seeking the scent as Hawke and Isabela watched. He stopped, his whole body tensing, then took off at a run, baying excitedly and sending pedestrians diving for the safety of the sidewalk. Hawke sprinted after him, the pirate close behind, following the mabari as he charged through the Hightown market, past the archway that led to the Chantry and down the stairs, the streets growing narrower and dirtier with each turn as marble and granite gave way to sandstone and weathered, rough wood. He pulled up short again, shaking his head with a sneeze, then lowered his snout to the ground and began the circling pattern that meant he'd lost the trail.

"She must have been going to visit Gamlen," Hawke said, her eyes sweeping the stalls of the Lowtown market. Isabela started on the other side, visually sorting through the shoppers, searching for Leandra's grey hair and Orlesian dress, though she knew as well as Hawke that Leandra never shopped in Lowtown any more. "I forgot this was her day for that." Relief flooded her face, but to Isabela, it looked forced. "We'll likely find her there. Come on."

She started in the direction of Gamlen's hovel, glancing back at Falcon's bark. The mabari looked at her quizzically, lowered his head to sniff the dusty street once more, then lifted it again, regarding his mistress with obvious uncertainty. "It's all right, boy," she told him. "Got to be hard to keep a scent with all these people stomping around, but she's gone to Gamlen's. Let's go find her before I have to pay a thousand gold to some sorry sod who sees her on her way home."

She turned, but the mabari held his ground with a low whine. She glanced back at him with visible impatience. "Do you have her scent?" she demanded, continuing when the big head drooped, "Then come on. We'll find her with Uncle Gamlen." She turned again, and now Falcon did follow her, slinking in her wake, his head still low. Devon's face was set in determination, as though by will alone she could make her words true, but she would not meet Isabela's eyes.

They encountered Gamlen before they had gotten halfway to his home, arguing heatedly with a ragged looking urchin. "Damn it, boy! Have you seen her or not?" he demanded angrily, taking a step forward with an upraised fist.

The youth regarded him without fear, sneering as his hand fell. "And what do I get if I have?" he wanted to know.

"Mother?" Devon asked, her face strained.

Gamlen nodded. "She's over two hours late, and you know how your mother is about punctuality. I've been looking for her for the last half hour, but this brat," he gestured to the boy with a baleful glare, "won't say a word without being paid."

Which was likely the exact thing that Gamlen would do in a similar situation, and the flat stare that Hawke directed at him made it clear that she knew it. He dropped his eyes, muttering something as she turned back to the boy. "Talk," she told him, fishing in her pouch and passing him a handful of coins, "and if I find out you're lying, I'll kill you." The kid couldn't be more than twelve, but there was not a trace of a bluff in Devon's tone or manner, and the boy saw it.

For a second, Isabela thought he might run, but then he swallowed hard and held out a hand to take the coins. "Not lying," he muttered, his eyes widening as he inspected the coins. "Real silver?" he gasped, looking incredulously at Hawke. "Lady, I'm your man, through and through! I saw her up in the marketplace," he went on hastily, plainly seeing that Devon was not looking for oaths of fealty. " I seen her here before; she gives me coin sometimes."

That was Leandra, alright. Isabela exchanged a bleak glance with Hawke, then both of them turned back to the boy.

"She was coming this way, but then a man fell down right in front of her. Had blood all over him, and he was asking for help, but she was the only one that did. She helped him up, but he was all wobbly. It was funny -" He broke off, glanced fearfully at Hawke, swallowed hard, "- was then, anyway. He was leaning on her, and they were talking, and they went the other way."

"This man...what did he look like?" Devon watched the boy intently, and he squirmed, looking suddenly apprehensive.

"He was...a man," he mumbled. "He had hair, ears, a nose...he wasn't real tall or real short, though, and," he looked brighter, "I saw him dropping some kind of powder on the ground as they was walking off!"

"Something to confuse the scent, most likely," Isabela offered, not liking the implications. Whoever it was had known that Leandra would offer aid to someone in distress, had known that the family had a mabari that could track.

Devon glanced at her, nodding tightly, then turned back to the boy. "Spread the word," she told him. "A thousand gold to the one who finds her. Two thousand if she's unharmed. Go!"

"Have you lost your mind?" Gamlen demanded in outrage as the boy ran off. "He likely pulled that whole yarn straight from the Fade! She's probably already at the house."

"Go and check, then," Devon told him without turning around. "The reward stands for you, too."

"I wouldn't -" he started to protest, then broke off, his lips thinning and a rather wretched look coming over his face that almost made Isabela feel sorry for him.

"He does love her, I think," she offered cautiously as he slunk off toward his home. "At least as much as he's able."

"She wouldn't have been down here if not for him!" Hawke growled, but when she turned, her expression was one of bitter self-recrimination. "Or if I'd let him live in the mansion with us." She crouched before Falcon, catching his burly head in her hands. "I'm sorry I didn't listen to you," she whispered. "Let's go back and try again."

"Hawke! Bela!" Devon's head came up as Merrill ran toward them. The elf staggered to a stop, panting. "I was visiting Varric when Bodahn came and told him about your mother...I was returning the twine that he loaned me, since I don't need it anymore...though I suppose sometimes I -" She broke off, seeing Hawke's look of barely leashed patience. "Varric said to tell you that he'll have people combing the city, and I thought maybe I could help you look..." She trailed off again, looking distressed. "I mean, it's not that I'm good at finding things or people, but I - I wanted to do _something_!"

"It's all right, Merrill," Hawke cut her off with a wan smile. "I'm glad you're here." She glanced down at Falcon. "Go, boy." The mabari took off at a run, the three of them close behind.

Man-hands met them in the market. "Donnic is coordinating the search," she reported. "Any news?"

Isabela quickly summarized what they had learned while Devon stayed close to Falcon as the hound searched the cobblestoned street at the edge of the market, pacing in ever widening arcs.

"It doesn't sound as though she knew him,"Aveline said, eyes narrowed in thought. "That would mean that he's not the gentleman friend that Leandra spoke of; maybe this has nothing to do with the flowers. Maybe they really were just a gift."

"That's two too many 'maybes' for me," the pirate replied.

"Me, too," Man-hands acknowledged grimly, meeting her eyes in a rare moment of accord.

"But Hawke's mother is such a lovely person!" Merrill cried, watching Hawke and Falcon worriedly. "Why would anyone harm her? And Hawke...she's lost so much already." Delicate features settled into steely determination. "We have to find her. That mage that we killed...the one that was supposed to be the killer?" She went on, oblivious to the winces that her comment evoked in her two companions. "He said that there was a blood magic ritual that he could use to track the woman if she was taken. I know I don't have Leandra's blood, but Hawke is her daughter. I could try -"

The innocent way that she could talk about blood magic still sent shivers down Isabela's spine sometimes, and the pirate did not try to object when Aveline shook her head.

"It's too risky, Merrill...for you as well as Devon. Every time you turn to that demon for help, you give it an opening that it could exploit. Devon wouldn't want to find her mother at the cost of losing you."

Impatient anger flashed in the green eyes. "I'm not a child, Aveline. I dare say that I know the risks better than you do, and -" Her face fell. "And there is nothing else that I know how to do. I want to help!"

"Just be there for Devon," Aveline advised her. "She needs her friends about her right now, more than anything else."

"I - I can do that," Merrill agreed, just as Hawke's voice rang out:

"He's got it! Come on!"

They raced behind the dog through the narrow, twisting streets of Lowtown, scattering rats and people alike in their wake. By the third turn, all of them knew where they were going, though none of them wanted to admit it until the abandoned foundry loomed before them. A low groan escaped Hawke, and she charged past Falcon suddenly, headlong up the stairs and through the splintered door before any of them could react, her shout echoing off the stone walls.

"Mother!"

"Devon, damn it! Wait!" Isabela let Man-hands lead the charge, not being too keen on the idea of steel bootprints up her backside if she tripped. They found Hawke inside, pacing from empty room to empty room of the apparently abandoned structure like a caged animal.

"Why hasn't this shithole been torn down?"she snarled. "Where the Void is he?"Her eyes turned to Falcon, whose pacing was only slightly less agitated. He sniffed at the floor and made a sound somewhere between a whine and a growl, shaking his head and pawing at his nose and ears.

"Magic." Merrill's face was grave. "Blood magic. Very strong and very close." Her brow furrowed in concentration and her green eyes grew unfocused as she stepped to the middle of the floor, turning in a slow circle. "Below," she said suddenly, with the decisiveness that was only ever heard when magic was involved.

Below Lowtown lay Darktown and the Undercity...either of which made a perfectly logical destination for a murderous lunatic. It also explained how the bastard had likely eluded them when they had found his victims' remains here, years earlier.

"A hidden trapdoor, most likely," Isabela offered, deciding not to waste time wondering how many other victims there had been in the interim. They needed to make sure that Leandra was not his latest victim. She started circling around the perimeter of the room, eyes on the floor as she worked her way to the center, aware of the others fanning out to do the same.

"I found it!" Merrill's voice again, from one of the other rooms.

"And you were worried you wouldn't be any help," she told the elf, dropping to one knee and letting her fingers trace the edge of the door, seeking a latch, and any hint of traps. Merrill flushed a bit, but her features remained drawn with worry.

"It was concealed by magic," she explained as Hawke and Aveline arrived, "and it's warded, as well. When it is opened, he'll know it, and it may even trigger traps below." Hawke nodded in acknowledgment, and pushed Isabela back from the trapdoor. Producing a slim, hooked blade from the seam of one of her boots, she fished it through the nearly-invisible crack in the floor, releasing the latch and flipping the door open, then dropping inside with barely a second's pause.

" _Damn_ it, Hawke!" Isabela narrowly avoided colliding with Falcon, pulled back to allow the mabari to dive through after his mistress, then followed, taking little comfort in the fact that Man-hands seemed to be no less put out by their leader's recklessness, if her language was any indication.

The fight was already on, Hawke squared off against a rage demon, heedless of the corpses dragging themselves upright from the filth that covered the ground. Aveline charged, her shield sending the nearest one flying, slamming into the wall and sliding down into a twitching heap that her sword quickly reduced to a bunch of dismembered, twitching limbs that would not rise again. Thick vines burst from the ground as Merrill chanted her spell, twining tight around two more of the corpses, holding them fast as conjured stones and bolts of arcane energy from the mage's staff beat them down.

Three down, two to go. Daggers drawn, Isabela danced and wove around and between them. They were clumsy, but quicker than they appeared, and the only way to neutralize them was to do enough physical damage that they couldn't continue to move. She hamstrung one, dodging its grasp as it collapsed to the ground; they were strong, too, and if they got a good grip, they could do a world's worth of hurt.

Falcon sprang on that one with a snarl, and the pirate spun away to engage the other, no longer hampered by the chance of an attack from behind. Quick as thought, she closed, blades driving in just so, and with a flick of her wrists, the head tumbled from the shoulders and bounced away, the body continuing to flail away until she ducked behind it and severed the tendons in the knees. Aveline moved in and finished it off, just as Hawke sent the demon back to the Fade with a final sweep of her daggers and sprinted toward a shadowed alcove. Isabela felt her heart lurch unpleasantly in her chest when she saw what had drawn the rogue's attention: a still form lying on a cot, covered completely by a blanket.

"Mother?" Hawke reached for the blanket with trembling hands and drew it back; the lurching sensation in the pirate's chest intensified at the sight of disheveled grey hair, but when Hawke lifted her head, her expression held a mix of relief and dread.

"It's...not her," she said, turning the form carefully onto its back, letting the light from the lanterns on the walls fall onto the face as they drew close enough to see.

_Shit, shit, shit._

Alessa...the woman they had saved from DuPuis. Her eyes were open and unseeing, her features slack in death, but there was no mark on her to indicate how she might have died...until Hawke pulled the blanket down further.

"Sonofabitch." The words left Devon in a raw gasp, and she took a step back, panic rising anew in her eyes. Alessa's arms were folded over her belly in what would have been a look of peaceful repose, if not for the fact that both hands were gone, red meat and white bone glistening at the ends of the neatly severed stumps.

"Andraste's mercy," Aveline breathed, green eyes grim as they met Isabela's, not needing to voice what they all knew. The chances of this having nothing to do with the other murdered women had just dropped to nil. DuPuis had been innocent; the killer still lived...and he had Leandra. Staring at the corpse, Isabela felt a sudden urge to grab Hawke and drag her out of here, all the way back to Hightown, because there were, she was suddenly and morbidly certain, worse things than not knowing.

Not that it stood any chance of actually happening, because Hawke spun and started to charge forward again without bothering to look and see if they were following her.

"Devon, wait!" The note of iron command in Aveline's voice was one that invariably made her subordinates snap to attention. Hawke's expression was anything but subordinate, but she did turn back. "You're not going to help your mother by getting yourself killed, damn it!"

A logical argument, but Devon was not in a logical mood at the moment. "Or would you rather get Aveline killed?" Isabela put in bluntly, knowing that it was the only thing that might reach her. "Or Merrill? Would that be a fair trade?"

Anger flared in her eyes, then subsided as guilt and fear rolled in. " I've got to find her!" she insisted. "The rest of you wait here -"

"That's not what we're saying, Devon!" Aveline exclaimed. "We'll find Leandra, but the bastard already knows we're here. If we go running blindly into whatever other traps he's set up for us, we'll be playing right into his hands." She stepped closer, her expression grave. "We can't save her if we're dead."

For a moment, Isabela thought that Hawke would take a swing at the Guard-Captain, but she swallowed hard and nodded wordlessly, turning and moving forward again, this time at a slower pace, eyes searching floor, walls and roof for any hint of traps. Falcon moved just ahead of her, his breath a near-constant growl low in his chest as he found and followed the scent, lifting his head occasionally to shake it. Isabela moved to her side, seeing Hawke automatically adjust her pattern: the left side was the pirate's to search, the right was Hawke's. Aveline was right behind, sword drawn, and she could hear Merrill at her back, murmuring the words of what she assumed was a scrying spell.

Must've been, because it was Merrill who warned them of the next set of wards in time to allow them to be tripped one at a time, the singly summoned creatures easily finished off, but still costing precious moments to do so. Forward again. Another set of wards, another fight to delay them, and then -

"What in the Void is this?" Hawke muttered, moving cautiously forward. It was either meant to be a cutting parody or a creepily pathetic imitation of a drawing room: an expensive rug rolled out over the mud covered floor, and arranged on and around it, chairs, end tables, bookshelves, a wardrobe. Against one wall, an enormous canopy bed with velvet spread and curtains; against another, crates had been stacked together, covered in white lilies and candles that surrounded a gilt-framed portrait that made the hairs on the back of the pirate's neck stand on end.

"That's a pretty little shrine," Merrill chirped, her brow furrowing as she drew closer. "But...isn't that your mother, Hawke?"

"It is...but it isn't," Devon replied, her face shadowed with dread as she stared up at the image.

The shape of the face was right, and the mouth, but the eyes were blue instead of hazel, the shape just a bit off. It still gave Isabela a major case of the creeps. "If I ever make anything this pathetic, do me a favor and put me out of my misery," she said, her voice sharper than she had intended, knowing that telling Hawke that they should just get out of here would do no good, _knowing_ that there were worse things than not knowing.

Devon glared at her, and for a moment, Isabela hoped that she would take offense, lash out. Man-hands was certainly glowering enough for both of them, but after a moment, Hawke's features softened back to their expression of worry, and she nodded. She understood what had prompted the ridiculous comment, and that was both comforting and discomfiting, as unsettling to the pirate as the picture, though for very different reasons.

"We have to find her!" Hawke spun away from the shrine, her eyes falling on the array of papers and books that surrounded one of the chairs.

"What we find here may give us a better idea of what he's doing, help us fight him when we find them," Aveline suggested carefully, clearly bracing herself for a fight, but Hawke only nodded, crouching among the papers and sorting through them, eyes flickering rapidly over the words written there.

"The books...seem to deal chiefly with blood magic and necromancy," Merrill offered hesitantly from one of the bookshelves. "That...doesn't sound promising." She cast an apprehensive look at Hawke, but the rogue had picked up a leatherbound journal, its pages covered edge to edge in neat, tightly spaced writing.

"Used quicklime to preserve her feet," she read aloud. "Unsure whether texture of the skin is to my liking. Will try other methods." Face set, she turned the page, continued. "Mharen - it's a pretty name. I saw her hands. Long, slender fingers. Fair skin, the hands of a lifelong scholar. Oh, to lock my own clumsy fingers in hers again..." Another pause, another turning of a page, then, "Today is our anniversary. Had hoped to complete my work before now, but one piece is missing. I'm so sorry, love. Please wait a little longer. I haven't forgotten my promise. When I see it, I'll know. I would know that face anywhere."

"Andraste's sweet mercy," Aveline breathed.

Her face chalk-pale and grim, Hawke kept reading. "It's close, now. My long wait is almost over. Am I doing the right thing? It all seemed so clear to me, but now... what have I become? When did this happen? Someone will eventually try to stop me. I've left too many clues for them not to. When they come, should I try to stop them? Maybe the Maker took her from me because I deserved to lose her. No. It's too late for me to stop, now. The Maker will need to stop me if he thinks I need to be stopped. No one else."

The book slid from her hands. "That's the last entry," she said flatly. "It's dated today."

She stalked forward again, and Isabela let the letter she had been examining, some fawning missive promising to drop off books - probably not 'Hard In Hightown', more was the pity - and signed only as 'O', fall to the floor as she moved back to flank her friend.

Further into the tunnels, and further still, until -

"You have arrived." A thin, ascetic looking man rose to his feet, stepping around a woman sitting with her back to them. "Leandra was so certain that you would come."

Leandra. Relief washed through Isabela. They just had to take out this fucker, and they could take her home. She exchanged a brief glance with Devon and faded wide as the other rogue sauntered forward, outwardly calm. Only the pirate, and perhaps Aveline, could see the tension coiled beneath the insouciant facade.

"Mother always did know me best," she drawled, her eyes flicking past her mother carelessly, hands swinging free at her sides, daggers within easy reach.

"And she spoke so fondly of you," the man responded, a creepily serene smile on his lips though his eyes were flat, dead. "Such a kind, gentle soul."

"He's a mage, Hawke," Merrill warned, nothing absentminded or uncertain about her as she moved to give herself a clear shot, her green eyes fixed on the man.

"I guessed as much," Hawke replied flatly. "Mother?" The figure in the chair stirred slightly, a muffled sound rising, but did not turn. Hawke's features hardened.

"What have you done to her?" she demanded, her hands falling to her daggers.

If the bastard appreciated the danger he was in, he gave no sign, offering the rogue a beatific smile instead. "I have done...what only the Maker has done until now."

Isabela ran through the possibilities in her head: abandoning the world, letting his bride be burned at the stake, smiting heretics...none of them sounded promising.

"I am Quentin," he stated proudly, "and you will all be witnesses to my greatest achievement. Do you know," he went on, strolling back towards Leandra, "what the greatest force in the world is?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me," Devon replied tersely. "Let her go, and I'll listen to whatever you have to say."

He'd have to talk fast. Isabela hadn't seen that look in Hawke's eyes since Bethany had been taken to the Gallows; once Leandra was out of harm's way, his lifespan would be measured in seconds.

The walking corpse went on as though she hadn't spoken. "It is love, and I've proven it. The Maker took her from me, but I've brought her back, just as she was." His hand reached out to touch Leandra's shoulder, his face an obscene mockery of tenderness, and Hawke's right hand twitched, the dagger half out of its sheath. "Her hands...her eyes...and at long last, her face." He caught Leandra's hand in his own and she rose, her movements jerky and uncoordinated. Isabela felt her earlier foreboding returning with a vengeance, and when the clumsy figure turned...

" _No_." The raw, wounded sound that escaped Devon Hawke with that single word was one that the pirate hoped never to hear again. Her eyes were locked on the woman that was her mother...and yet not. The face was Leandra's, though slack and devoid of emotion in a way that the Hawke matriarch had never been, but her eyes were blue, like those of the woman in the picture.

_Holy Maker, holy_ _ **fuck**_ _, he took her eyes, the sonofabitch took her_ _ **eyes**_ _!_ Nor was that the worst: a row of stitches encircled her neck, raw flesh showing in the gaps, while similar rings of suture showed at her wrists protruding from – was that a _wedding_ dress? The words written in the journal made entirely too much sense now.

Hawke screamed - no words, only a choked cry of grief and fury – and launched herself at the madman, but a glowing barrier shimmered into existence, deflecting her blades, and demons sprang into existence all around the chamber. Hawke went through them like a hot knife through butter, attacking in a blind fury, Falcon raging at her side, while the rest of them fought to keep her alive, deflecting and drawing off the attackers that she ignored.

The pirate found herself back to back with Aveline – having a one-woman wall protecting your blind side was not an advantage to be ignored, while Merrill filled the chamber with entangling vines, crushing stone, flickering lighting, all of which obeyed her will unerringly, beating down one Fade escapee after another. The last one crumbled to dust, and Hawke spun and sprang toward Quentin.

The mage was reeling: summoning that many demons and controlling them in battle had taken its toll, but he glared at her defiantly, positioning himself between Hawke and Leandra. "No! You will not take her from me!"

Bad move. Falcon hit him low, snarling as his teeth sank in high upon the thigh, near the groin, releasing a gout of bright red blood. Hawke hit him high and took him to the ground, technique forgotten as she raised her right hand and brought it down again and again, the dagger plunging into flesh and bone, her face twisted in rage, control forgotten.

"Devon..."

Hawke's head came up, the fury on her blood-spattered face melting to a look of disbelieving horror, daggers dropping to the ground as she sprang to catch the figure that was crumpling like a marionette whose strings had been cut. "Mother." She cradled her awkwardly. "Just...hang on. We'll get you out of here and get Anders to fix you up."

Leandra shook her head, lifting a hand – Alessa's hand, Isabela realized with a lurch in the pit of her stomach – to touch her daughter's face. "I knew that you would find me." Her voice was a weak husk of itself, fading with every word, and her eyes -

_**Not** _ _her eyes, her eyes weren't_ _**blue** _ _, damn it, who the_ _**fuck** _ _did they come from?_

The blue eyes were clearly straining to focus on Hawke. "I should have gotten here sooner," Devon choked out. "I'm sorry...I'm sorry!"

"Don't be," Leandra whispered. "If you hadn't come, I would have been trapped like this. Now I will be with your father...and Carver." Her features shifted slowly, painfully, into a look of distress. "But you'll be alone."

"I'll be fine," Hawke said, wiping her eyes with the back of a hand, smearing blood and bits of whatever it was that came out of demons when you stuck them across her face. "I always am." She tried for a smile, but it looked like it really wanted to be a scream.

"My strong girl." The voice was little more than a breath, grey lips managing a tender smile that made Isabela's heart clench, her eyes burn. "So...proud of you. Love...you...so much."

"I love you, Mother," Hawke said desperately as Leandra's head tipped back, stretching the stitches grotesquely, and the pirate found herself praying – truly _praying_ to the damned Maker that they would hold, that Devon wouldn't be forced to watch her mother's head tear free from whatever body that bastard had sewn it onto. It held, but the dim light in the blue eyes faded, and the hand dropped.

"Mother? Mother!" Hawke shook the lifeless body: gingerly at first, then with more force. "Mother, please..."

Her head came up, eyes seeking them out. "Isabela, find Anders!" she cried out. "He's not far from here, is he? He can -"

"Devon." Tears streaked Aveline's face as she stepped forward and knelt beside the rogue. "She's gone." Her voice cracked on the last word. "I'm sorry...so sorry."

"No!" Hawke jerked away from her. "I can't be too late...not again!" She looked beseechingly to Merrill. "Merrill, help her, please! Do what he did! Use my blood!" Before any of them could stop her, she had snatched up one of her daggers and drawn it deeply across her forearm, bright crimson welling up to join the stuff already half dried on her skin.

"Hawke..." Merrill held up a restraining hand, shaking her head, green eyes bright with sorrow. "Oh, Hawke, no. Even if I could, it would not be her. Please _lethallan_...let her go." She sank to her knees on Hawke's other side. Devon stared at her for a moment, mouth working soundlessly and anger trying to surge in her eyes, but then she crumbled, her head bowing low over the corpse in her arms. Aveline and Merrill embraced her from each side while Isabela stood frozen, unable to move.

"My fault," Hawke whispered brokenly, rocking back and forth as Falcon tipped his head back to sound a mournful howl. "My fault...again. What am I going to tell Beth?"

* * *

Isabela stood outside the door to Hawke's bedroom, weighing her options. Hawke had held up throughout the process of bringing Leandra's body up from that shithole, breaking the news to Gamlen, writing a letter to Bethany and making the arrangements for the pyre and funeral. She had watched, her face a mask of stone, as the flames consumed Leandra's remains, had returned to the mansion and dealt politely – if distantly – with those who came to offer their condolences at the wake. She'd even let Gamlen in, though something cold in those deep-ocean eyes made the pirate suspect that it would be the last time.

But she had shattered when Bethany had walked in, shadowed by the broad shouldered bulk of the Knight-Captain of the templars. One minute, she had been nodding wordlessly at some inane tale that Varric was trying to distract her with, the distant look in her eyes making it plain that she wasn't hearing a word, and the next a stricken look had crossed her face. Isabela had turned to follow her gaze, caught sight of Bethany, and when she had turned back, Devon had been gone.

And she'd _really_ been gone. A search of the mansion had turned up no sign of her, leaving the rest of them to offer what consolation they could to Bethany. Her years in the Gallows had changed her, giving her features a maturity that achingly deepened her resemblance to her mother, but her eyes looked young and lost as she leaned into Aveline's protective embrace and squeezed Varric's hand gratefully.

"Take care of her, please?" she asked softly. The words were ostensibly directed at them all, but her hazel eyes were fixed on Isabela.

"We will, Sunshine," Varric said, saving the pirate from having to reply. "Any chance they'll let you out a bit more often than every couple of years?" This last was directed at Cullen, who was trying to be unobtrusive and failing miserably.

The templar shrugged awkwardly. "It was decided that, given Serrah Hawke's role in apprehending such a dangerous blood mage, a dispensation could be granted to allow Mage Hawke to attend the funeral. As to future such dispensations, I can't say, although Serrah Hawke is always free to visit her sister."

"I'd make it worth your while," Isabela offered with a sultry smile, sauntering toward him. The boy blushed bright red, his expression becoming just shy of panicked.

"It's n-not really my d-d-decision to make," he said hastily, backing away. "I'll just...w-wait in the foyer." Which had been what the pirate was really trying for.

"I've missed you, Bela," Bethany said, shaking her head with a fond – if sad – smile while Man-hands actually gave her a smirk of approval.

"I've missed you, too, Sweetness," Isabela replied, "but it's Hawke that needs you, damn her stubborn ass."

"She's blaming herself," Bethany replied softly. "She always has. Tell her to come and see me as soon as you can get her to listen to you...and don't let her do anything foolish. Promise?" She reached out to catch Isabela's hand, her gentle doe eyes beseeching.

And Isabela had promised...which was why she had remained in Hightown after everyone else had left, watching the mansion until a familiar shadow slipped over the rooftops and inside, why she had picked the lock on the front door, and why she was standing here now. Which meant that her options totaled exactly one. She turned the knob and slipped inside. The room was dark, but she could make out the familiar shape huddled on the bed. Falcon lifted his head, chuffed softly and lay back down again. Crossing the room, she seated herself on the edge, taking off her boots and curling her legs beneath her.

"Bethany is...well," she offered cautiously.

"Bethany is an orphan," came the flat reply, "and a prisoner in the fucking Gallows. Both because of me. Not how I would define 'well'."

"She's worried about you," Isabela pressed, finding herself sailing in unfamiliar waters without a map. "She wants you to visit her when you're able. She loves you."

A harsh laugh. "No need to worry about me," Hawke said mirthlessly. "Like I told Mother, I'll be fine. I'm always fine. It's the people I'm supposed to look after who are fucked." She shifted further onto her side, facing away from the pirate. "Go away, Isabela."

She could leave now; she'd seen Hawke safely in, delivered Bethany's message and been dismissed. But she couldn't leave, because even though she couldn't see Hawke's face in the darkness, she could see it in her mind: the brittle, wounded look of grief that the mighty Devon Hawke never showed to the world. When exactly she had stopped hiding it from her, the pirate wasn't quite sure.

She was a friend, and a – a _good_ friend. Nothing more, because anything more than that just wasn't Isabela's style, but that was enough.

"No," she replied, quiet but firm, scooting up the bed until she was laying behind Hawke. "Devon, your mother loved you. You have that, at least." She'd told Hawke about being sold for a handful of coins and a goat, but what she hadn't been able to express was the feeling of watching your mother's eyes slide away from you to count those coins, examine the goat, because you were bought and paid for, and no longer any concern of hers. The bitch hadn't even said goodbye.

No response; she tried again. "And family is more than blood. You still have people who care about you." _Careful, girl._ "Like...Aveline," she offered awkwardly. "Varric. Merrill."

Silence. She moved closer, draping her arm over Hawke's waist and resting her head on the rogue's shoulder. "Do you remember when I added my embellishment to the bannister?" She'd had no idea what she was going to say until the words left her mouth, but she felt Hawke stir ever so slightly.

"Yes," she responded softly.

"And when you improved it?" She could still hear Leandra's voice, as calm as ever: _It's quite detailed, dear, but if you're going to go to that much trouble, you should really try for accuracy. There's no way that poor girl could hold that position for any length of time as top-heavy as she is._

She felt Hawke draw a shaky breath. "I remember," she said with what might have been a weak laugh.

"And when she caught Merrill and Sandal swinging on the chandelier?" Bodahn had been mortified, she and Hawke had been laughing their asses off, but Leandra had just shaken her head with that unflappable smile and layered pillows on the floor beneath. "You and Carver must have really been demons growing up, to make her that shockproof."

"We were," Hawke confirmed, the laugh stronger. "Snakes and lizards in our pockets, and if we weren't fighting with each other, we were getting into trouble together. He was trying to get even with me for something once, and thought that a skunk in my bed was a good idea. He made it in the front door before it chewed through the bag and got loose in the house."

"Oh, shit!" That image was priceless. Bethany and Leandra had told her of Malcolm Hawke's deep, rich voice, and she suspected that voice would have been booming with laughter as his wife tried to chase the skunk from the house. "How long before the smell wore off?"

"I'm not sure," Hawke admitted. "I think our sense of smell gave out first, though, because the folk in town tended to give us a wide berth even after we stopped noticing the stink."

The pirate chuckled softly. "Remember when she came in and dumped the water over us?" she said after a moment.

"I'm not likely to forget that, since I had to sleep on a soggy mattress for the next few days," Devon replied wryly. "She liked you, you know," she added.

"She was the kindest person I've ever known," Isabela said quietly. How many women in Hightown would have accepted their daughter keeping company with a crude, foul mouthed, drunken pirate? And yet, when she had dropped by one day to find Devon gone, she had wound up spending an entire afternoon in the kitchen with Leandra, the woman trying to teach her to make scones, as though she were just another one of her daughters.

"She was the best person in the world," Devon said, a hint of unsteadiness in her voice. "She didn't deserve me for a daughter. She didn't deserve... _this_." An open tremor in her tone now, her breath hitching in her chest. "She didn't – ah, _shit_ , Bela!" Her shoulders heaved, the sob tearing from her, releasing the first tears that she'd shed since the whole fucking mess had started, and even though it had been years – decades, really – since Isabela had last cried, she knew that these tears were as necessary as they were unstoppable.

So she remained where she was, wrapping her arms around Hawke from behind and holding her while she cried, stroking her hair and making quiet sounds of comfort until the tears tapered off and Devon fell asleep in her arms. She could have slipped from the bed and left, but it was late, and she was tired, and Hawke might wake up and want to talk again, and so she stayed, and eventually she drifted off herself, still wrapped protectively around Hawke.


	8. Sea Change

"Damn it, Hawke, what are you _doing_?"

She tried to snarl, to sound impatient, but when the tousled blonde head came up, the smirk suggested that she hadn't quite managed it.

"Having my way with you," Devon drawled with a look of lazy amusement in her eyes. "I won, did I not?"

"Yes, but -" _Damn it!_ Winner's choice sex had been a routine stake in their private games of Wicked Grace for a couple of years now, leading to one lively encounter in the Chantry, and another in the cells below the Gallows after the pirate had been arrested for a bit of a brawl in the Hanged Man. Hawke had always been quite willing to pay up when she was the loser, and delightfully inventive when she won, but this...

Lips ghosted along the line of her jaw, the very tip of a tongue tracing against the skin. She shivered, the tension beginning to coil low in her belly both familiar and unsettlingly different. "Are you trying to bore me to death?" she demanded, grabbing the collar of Hawke's tunic and dragging her head back up. The pirate's clothes had been finessed off as soon as the door to her room had closed behind them, but the other rogue remained garbed. In control. "You _know_ I don't like this!"

_This._ Soft kisses. Gentle caresses. Plain vanilla _boring_ sex. Sex could be fast and hard, slow and decadent, or anything in between, as long as it was all about getting off, and not...this. Hawke's fingers trailed lightly over the curve of her collarbones, her head cocked, and beneath the amusement in her eyes, there was an intensity that Isabela had never seen. It wasn't lust, wasn't anything she recognized, so why did it make her heart pound, her breath quicken?

"So, I should stop then?" she inquired, almost carelessly, but beneath the amusement, beneath the unnerving intensity, there was something else: fear, tightly guarded, braced against a rejection that was expected.

"And have to listen to how I don't make good on my debts for the next six months?" She shook her head, telling herself that was the only reason, that the fear she thought she saw was just her imagination. Why should Hawke fear her? "Not a chance, but the next time I win, it's going to be on Man-hands' desk."

The intensity subsided, along with the other thing that couldn't be fear, both replaced by a gleam of interest and mischief. "With or without her present?" she wanted to know, and Isabela grinned. That was the old Hawke, her partner in crime; the one who had been gone for far too long. It had been nearly three months since Leandra's death, and only in the last couple of weeks had Devon begun to set aside the impassive mask that was all that she would show the world and the wounded, weary look that only Isabela saw, letting flashes of her irreverent humor show once more.

"I suspect that she'd put a damper on things if she were there," the pirate replied, stretching languorously beneath Hawke, hoping to tempt her into something a bit more vigorous and normal, "but if one or both of us gets off as she's walking through the door, I'll call it a win."

Hawke chuckled with a refreshing wickedness. "Deal," she murmured, but when she lowered her head, her tongue flickered against Isabela's lips with that same odd gentleness, asking permission, coaxing, rather than just taking. As if the pirate needed to be coaxed. She parted her lips, wrapping her arms around Devon's neck, drawing her in, but no matter how persuasively she tried to goad her into a more urgent pace, the other refused, kissing her slowly, deeply, and with a toe-curling thoroughness.

"Would you at least take your damn clothes off?" she asked, forcing herself to break contact, all too aware of the heat rising beneath her skin, though that was not the only reason for the sharpness in her voice. Her husband had seldom bothered to remove his clothes before fucking her, and the feel of cloth against her naked skin still made her twitchy, brought back the smell of old sweat and sour beer; the sound of his grunting as he rutted on top of her; the feeling of being helpless, powerless, trapped. Everything that she no longer was, and would never let herself be again.

She'd never told any of this to Hawke, and did not intend to, but the blue-green eyes studied her intently for a moment, seeing too damn much before she nodded and drew back, stripping out of her clothes wordlessly and with the lithe grace that still fascinated Isabela. She was all compact muscle and curves, the scars that she had gained in the Deep Roads, plus a few others she'd picked up elsewhere crisscrossing her skin, faded a bit with the years but still there.

"Better?" she asked as she dropped to hands and knees and crawled forward, up Isabela's body, dropping her head to let her tongue mark her progress along dusky skin, from the navel over the stomach, between her breasts to the hollow at the base of her throat.

"Be even better if you'd stop trying to lull me to sleep," Isabela quipped, determined not to give up. She didn't _like_ this sort of thing, damn it; it just wasn't -

_Oh, shit..._

Lips at her neck, grazing teeth, flickering tongue, each nip soothed away with a gentle suction and a silken sweep, and she couldn't stop the moan, couldn't keep from tipping her head back to invite more. She fully expected some smartass comment from Hawke about how that didn't sound much like a snore, but the other rogue said nothing, her full focus on the woman beneath her.

Hawke took her time, exploring with her mouth and hands as if she had never touched the pirate before, but at the same time knowing every damn place that would make her gasp, squirm, arch up in a hungry bid for more, and every time that Isabela tried to reciprocate, Devon either ignored her or slipped away from her hands, until at last she caught the pirate's wrists and pinned them to either side of her head.

"No distracting me," she warned with a faint smile, but that intense look was dominant now, making Isabela feel as if she could drown in the storm that was roiling in those deep-ocean eyes.

"Against the rules?" she demanded, trying hard not to sound as breathless as she felt.

"Winner's choice," was all that Hawke said before returning her attention to the curve of a breast that she had been following with her tongue, but that was all she needed to say, and she _knew_ it, damn her. Isabela let her head fall back to the pillow with an indelicate oath, felt the chuckle thrum against her flesh. Oh, but she would be paying for this the next time Isabela won! She'd give her a fucking she'd never forget...or maybe she'd get her all hot and bothered and leave her wanting...or maybe -

_Ohshitohshitohshit!_

Fingers slipped between her legs and glided into her just as a gloriously hot, wet mouth covered one hard peak, sucking slowly while the fingers matched the cadence. She clenched her teeth, determined not to respond... but restraint had never been her strong suit, and her fingers were soon curled into Hawke's unruly hair, her back arching to press her breast even more against that talented mouth, and her hips rocking against the fingers, trying to take them deeper, harder, but Hawke maintained her slow, gentle thrusts, withdrawing almost completely before pressing in just as completely, filling Isabela over and over as her mouth roamed down the slope of one breast, up the other to claim it, and now her thumb was slipping up to find -

_Hawke!_

She didn't scream her lover's name, but she damn near bit through her tongue to keep from it, digging her heels into the bed beneath her to still her movements, fighting for control.

What _was_ this? Hawke wasn't even _trying_ to get off, intent on Isabela in a way that she had never experienced from the rogue. From _anyone_.

The mouth left her breasts with a final nuzzle and headed south, kissing a slow, blazing path over her stomach, covering every inch, the fingers of the hand that wasn't pumping in and out of her gliding over any skin that the lips and tongue weren't currently tasting.

It made no sense! Sex was all about give and take, both people - or more – getting what they wanted. What was Hawke getting out of this? What did she gain by touching the pirate like this, as though it was the most important thing in the world, as though her pleasure was all that mattered?

Lower and outward, lips brushing over the crest of her hipbone, teeth nibbling while fingers caressed the opposite side, and the heat in her blood was an inferno, feeling the mirrored touches beginning to inch inward and lower still.

She should be enjoying this, shouldn't she? A lover who knew her body intimately, and whose sole focus was on her, on getting her off? All she had to do was enjoy herself, so why did she feel as helpless as when that bastard who had bought her like livestock was on top of her, grunting and thrusting? No...that wasn't the right comparison, she knew it. Hawke wasn't holding her down, forcing her, wouldn't do it, ever. She could leave if she wanted to, so why didn't she?

Hawke's free hand left off its caresses, moving beneath Isabela's thigh and lifting it as she shifted still further down, nudging her legs further apart and settling between them, trailing open mouthed kisses over her inner thighs, tongue sweeping, teeth grazing, the heat of her breath _this_ close, driving her crazy, because she _was_ enjoying it, it was fucking _fantastic_ , but at the same time, her heart felt as though it was trying to hammer its way out of her chest, and she could barely breathe.

And then those fingers that were making her so crazy stilled, deep inside her, and Hawke raised her head and looked at her, and Isabela felt like she was plunging down the front of a rogue wave with an ocean of water cresting and ready to break on top of her, because the look in those eyes was intense and burning and vulnerable and churning with emotion, and it terrified Isabela, not because of what was there, but because of the way it made _her_ feel, like she _wanted_ to drown in those eyes, _wanted_ to take everything they offered and more. More than wanted.

Needed.

Needed Devon Hawke.

_No._

She slammed her eyes shut, let her head drop back to the pillow, but she couldn't make herself move away as Hawke lowered her head, her tongue joining her fingers in their artful dance. She let her hands fall away from the blonde curls, digging her nails deep into the rumpled sheets beneath her as darting touches alternated with slow sweeps, and then, oh sweet fucking Maker, _inside_ , drinking deep, fingers stroking through drenched folds, finding that spot that made her hips buck helplessly and guiding her into a rhythm as slow and steady as the the ocean rocking a boat, moving with her, _in_ her, the pressure building as slowly and inexorably as the great waves that rolled across the ocean to crash onto the rocks of the Wounded Coast.

She fought it; even though she couldn't make herself move away from that touch, even though she knew it was a losing battle, she fought against the storm that was trying to sweep her away, and when she finally broke, it was with a shuddering cry that she barely recognized as her own voice. She kept her hands curled hard into the sheets, kept her eyes closed tight.

Kept them closed as Hawke pushed her – gently but relentlessly – to peak after peak, her body arching, trembling, sweat drenching her skin, awash in pure sensation, light dancing behind her closed lids.

Kept them closed as Devon brought her down just as gently: soft brushes of lips over damp curls, hands moving over her hips, her thighs, her waist and belly. No words, just touches that seared her soul while they soothed her body.

Kept them closed as she felt Devon slipping away from her, off the bed without speaking.

Kept them closed while she waited for her heart to slow, until she could be sure that her voice would sound as she wanted it to, until she was sure she could speak.

Opened them, looking toward the chair where Devon was undoubtedly sprawled with a shit-eating smirk on her face. "Well, that wasn't bad, but I do hope you're not -"

She broke off; the room was empty, Hawke and her clothes gone.

* * *

She didn't see Hawke for two weeks, didn't seek her out – for sex or anything else – until the rumor reached her ears that Wall-Eyed Sam had the tome, and was planning to sell it to a bunch of Tevinters. It was actually a relief, seeing the betrayed anger in Hawke's eyes when she revealed that she had known all along what the 'relic' was, known that the Tome of Koslun was why the qunari refused to leave Kirkwall.

She wasn't even too surprised when Devon insisted that it had to be returned, once they got it back, to hopefully head off the violence that had grown ever more obviously imminent. She would kill Castillon, Hawke declared – not for the first time – so Isabela wouldn't need the tome. Which was sweet and romantic and all that crap, but what if Castillon killed Devon, instead? Hawke didn't know the ruthless bastard like the pirate did; just the thought of it made her throat try to close up.

She took the chance when it came, taking the tome off of Sam's body while Hawke, Man-hands and Varric were fighting – Tevinters, qunari, who the fuck knew? Telling herself that they didn't need her to beat them, that Hawke didn't need her, knowing that she wasn't just taking the Tome of Koslun to Castillon.

She was running away from Devon Hawke.


	9. Hell Comes To Hightown

First rule of writing: never become a part of the story.

Or maybe that was the second rule, the first rule being: never tell the truth if a lie sounds better.

Varric Tethras scrupulously adhered to the first rule, but from the moment that his bastard of a brother had introduced him to Devon Hawke, he'd been breaking the second rule on an all-too-regular basis. From the Rivaini's duel in the Chantry to chasing blood mages and rogue templars through Darktown to nearly getting his ass roasted by a batshit crazy magister who just might have been the very first darkspawn, he'd let himself be drawn along on one caper after another by the Fereldan rogue.

And the shit of it was, he _had_ to lie when he wrote about it, because no one would believe the sodding truth.

The current situation looked to be no different. After years of increasingly uneasy coexistence between Kirkwall and the contingent of shipwrecked qunari, a rolling clusterfuck kept going by both sides had culminated with the horned bastards attacking the city.

Devon had worked her ass off to keep the ever more fragile peace, even managed to earn something like respect from the qunari Arishok. He had named her "basalit-an" (though from what Varric knew of the qunari, it probably meant something like "I will kill you last"), not that it seemed to be worth much at the moment. As he, Hawke, Aveline, Daisy and Blondie raced through the streets of the burning city, the qunari they encountered tried to kill them with just as much enthusiasm as they were showing to everybody else.

Emphasis on _tried._

Devon wasn't _quite_ as pissed as she had been after finding out that Bartrand had gotten her sister thrown in the Gallows, but it was a close second, which meant that both her blades were poisoned, and not the kind that just made people dizzy or knocked them out. She moved from kill to kill like a whirlwind, Falcon at her side, and the rest of them mopping up, catching anyone trying to flank Fearless Leader, and in general just trying to keep up with her.

_Damn it, Rivaini, you picked a piss poor time to prove me right._

He'd tried to tell Hawke from the beginning that the pirate's only commitment was to her own interests, that she couldn't be depended on when push came to shove. Not that he didn't like her; Isabela was interesting enough company, as long as you kept one hand on your coin purse and one eye on the door to watch for the trouble that followed in her wake as surely as pilot fish trailed sharks.

But Hawke _liked_ trouble, thrived on it as much as Rivaini did, and he'd let the warnings slide away, telling himself that they were both big girls, when he knew damn good and well that for all Devon Hawke's insouciant demeanor, she cared about the people she let get close. And you didn't get much closer than Hawke and Rivaini, no matter how much they tried to deny it, but he'd started to think that maybe - just maybe - Isabela had changed. Not completely changed, but _enough._

But evidently he was a fool, because not only was Rivaini nowhere to be found, but she'd taken with her the one thing that would have sent the damned qunari on their not-so-merry way years ago. The one thing that might stop this bloodbath now. Varric still wasn't clear what the sodding book was, or why it was important enough to park for four years in Kirkwall, then tear the place apart over, but they currently had exactly two choices: lay down and die ...

Or fight.

Fight, it was.

Devon spun away from a qunari with his throat slashed from ear to ear, her own wounds healing in a swirl of whispered magic from Blondie, his glowing sidekick apparently not considering the wholesale slaughter taking place enough of an injustice to warrant an appearance.

"Get to the Chantry," Aveline ordered the terrified noble that the qunari had been dragging in the direction of Hightown. The massive stone edifice was unlikely to burn, and just might be sturdy enough to hold up to a siege. Since the attackers had already taken the Viscount's Keep and the adjacent guard barracks, it had been designated as the fallback position by the city's defenders.

The sound of explosions brought them all around, staring at the sudden light show visible over the rooftops.

"Gaatlok?" Devon wondered warily. The hornheads' explosive powder was as dangerous as it was mysterious, and if they'd put it into play, shit was going to get ugly, but Blondie shook his head.

"Magic," he stated confidently. Flame and lightning spells, from the look of it. The qunari hadn't counted many mages among their original number, and they numbered one fewer after the one poor bastard had immolated himself a few weeks back. That meant -

"Aveline!" Donnic ran toward them, his armor and visible skin stained with a paste of soot and blood, none of which appeared to be his own. Aveline didn't embrace her husband, but she did pause long enough to give him a once over, while he did the same for her. Romantic but practical; two peas in a pod, even if their courtship was another of those things that no one would have believed, if he'd written the truth. And Hawke had nixed 'The Edge of Desire', the much more plausible version he'd been working on with Rivaini. Could've been a best seller.

"Knight-Commander Meredith has allowed the mages from the Gallows to join the battle," Donnic told them.

_About fucking time._ The words died on his lips when he caught sight of Hawke's face, pale beneath the blood. _Shit._ He knew what was coming, so when Devon turned and sprinted down the nearest alley, abandoning their original plan of killing as many qunari away from the main force as possible en route to Hightown, he was already moving to follow her. The mages were formidable, but also vulnerable, and the qunari regarded them with a particularly virulent loathing. They sewed shut the lips of their own mages; safe bet they would target those on the other side for immediate elimination ... and Sunshine had only recently been accorded full Circle Mage status. Lucky her.

"Gather as many of the guard as you can and get to the Keep!" Aveline barked out before turning to race after Hawke without even a kiss goodbye for Donnic ... who was already running the other direction, anyway. Those two kids needed to learn to make time for romance.

Just not right now, maybe.

Varric knew his way around Kirkwall pretty well, but in her years in the City of Chains, Devon had found routes and back alleys even he had never traveled, so he just focused on keeping pace with her as she zigged and zagged, making turns seemingly at random and ignoring the knots of combat that they passed until they burst out onto the street at the foot of the steps leading up toward the Viscount's Keep.

Things were looking lively on the terraces above, and the fight didn't look to be going in the favor of Kirkwall's finest. Devon paused long enough to refresh the poison on her daggers, then charged up the steps and hurled herself at the first horned bastard she saw, slicing and spinning away as a massive sword cut through the air where she'd been a heartbeat or two earlier. As the qunari turned to track her with a wordless growl, Varric brought Bianca up, sighting in between the broad shoulders and letting fly. The bolt sprouted right where it was supposed to, the growl turned into a gargling roar as the qunari sank to his knees, groping over one shoulder to try to reach it, and Devon stepped back in, the sweep of her blade opening the unprotected throat in a gout of blood.

She was turning, searching for her next target, when a massive concussive wave sent all of them tumbling ass over elbows and slammed Hawke into a marble wall. As the dazed rogue tried to rise, a qunari mage lumbered toward her, features hidden behind a bronze mask, lips sewn shut with crude looking stitches, but hands glowing with power

"Hawke!" Merrill scrambled for the staff that had tumbled from her grasp, while Varric groped for the scattered bolts from his quiver, which had scattered like jackstraws across the paving stones.

"Devon!" Aveline gained her feet, slamming the hilt of her sword into her shield with a shout. "Me! Fight me, you big bastard!" The big brute hesitated, half turning toward the distraction, when suddenly the pulsing nimbus of magic surrounding his hands vanished like a candle that had been blown out. A scowl formed on the stitched lips, and he looked down at his hands in puzzlement just as the tip of a sword burst from the center of his chest in a spray of blood. Knees buckled beneath the robes, and the qunari collapsed toward the stones, sliding off of the impaling blade as he went; behind him, their savior wrenched the blade free, and with a single, powerful stroke sent the head tumbling down the steps, leaving blotches of blood with every bounce. Falcon, limping back from where he'd been thrown, paused briefly to sniff at it, then sneezed twice and returned to his mistress' side.

Devon, in the meantime, had made it to her feet; she and Aveline were facing the owner of the sword. Taller than even Aveline, the woman looked down at them with ice blue eyes in a not unattractive face framed with pale blonde hair that was nicely set off by the drops of blood in it.

"Knight-Commander Meredith." Aveline's greeting confirmed Varric's suspicions as to the identity of the woman … not that the golden circlet around her head left much doubt that they were facing the one who really ruled Kirkwall. A slight tip of his head, and Daisy faded back behind a row of planters, eyes wide with apprehension, while Anders slipped out of sight around a corner, but the templar's attention remained focused on the two directly before her.

"Guard Captain," Meredith acknowledged Aveline with a perfunctory glance while returning her sword to its scabbard. The glacial gaze shifted to Devon next. "I know you," she announced, looking the Fereldan up and down appraisingly. "The name of Hawke has turned up in my reports many times … too many."

Varric held his breath. He didn't _think_ that the Knight-Commander knew about the black-market lyrium trade that Hawke and Rivaini had all but cornered over the last two years. For his money, it seemed like a good deal for the Gallows; Devon had her hooks in quite a few templars, but the only things that she used her influence over them for was to ensure Bethany's safety and make sure they looked the other way when she snuck in to visit her sister. Somehow, though, he doubted that the Knight-Commander would see it that way.

If such concerns had entered Devon's mind, she gave no sign. "No thanks are necessary, Knight-Commander," she shot back with a cheeky grin that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Always happy to help out the ones taking such _good_ care of my sister." Meredith's eyes narrowed, but Hawke had kept the insolence perfectly veiled, the threat beneath the words all but hidden.

"Your assistance to my templars is appreciated," she said at last, her tone carefully measured, "but your drunken escapades with the Rivaini pirate are not."

"Oh, I don't think that's going to be a problem any more," Devon drawled with a dismissive wave, "and I'd say that you have bigger concerns right now, wouldn't you?" She jerked her chin toward the sounds of combat and the smoke rising up from better than a dozen fires.

"Indeed." Meredith studied her for a moment longer, then turned away, staring toward the upper terraces. "The qunari are taking their prisoners to the Viscount's Keep; likely, they have already seized control there. We must deal with them."

"We have been," Devon replied tersely, crouching to wipe her bloody daggers on the fallen mage's robe, then freshening the poison on each blade, "but if they're in the Keep, it's not going to be easy to get at them. Where are the mages from the Gallows?"

"There." Meredith waved a careless hand in the direction of the most intense sounds of combat as she turned to go. "Get to the Keep and reconnoiter. I see if I can find more of my templars."

"They're not protecting the mages?" Hawke demanded, blue-green eyes suddenly matching the coldness of the Knight-Commander's gaze.

"Some undoubtedly are," Meredith replied without breaking stride or looking around – which, given the look on Devon's face, was just as well, "but I doubt that many survive."

She passed within an arm's length of Varric without sparing him a glance, and Bianca was all but begging him to loose a bolt or three into her retreating back – shit happened in the middle of a war, right? But he knew better than to take the time, because by the time he'd turned back around, Devon had given Falcon a healing potion and resumed her sprint toward the thick of things, Aveline close behind.

"Blondie, Daisy, let's move!" he called out, drawing Bianca and setting a bolt into her groove as he moved to follow.

"She's gone?" Merrill glowered balefully in the direction the Knight-Commander had taken, nearly tripping over the dead qunari mage in the process. "She's not nice at all, is she?"

"That's putting it mildly," Anders growled, longer legs easily propelling him past dwarf and elf. "She'd likely be just as happy if every mage up there died. She -"

Varric cut him off before he could launch into his standard diatribe on the abuses heaped on mages. "If Sunshine is one of them, Hawke just might decide to help the qunari out." Unfortunately, he was probably a lot closer to the truth than he wanted to be. "Less talk, more run."

By the time they caught up with Devon, Aveline and the dog, four more qunari were dead, and Hawke needed healing again, her left arm twisted at an angle that made Varric wince.

"Hold still," Anders ordered her, aligning the broken bones gingerly. "This is going to hurt -"

"Hurry _up_!" she snapped, barely seeming to notice what he was doing, her head turned, staring up the next flight of stairs. The faint glow of healing energy had barely begun to blossom around the broken arm when a fresh volley of light and sound erupted above them, coupled with shouts of alarm and screams of pain. Blondie had healed a broken collarbone for Varric the previous year, and it had hurt like a sonuvabitch, but the knitting bones had nothing to do with the agony on Hawke's face right now.

"Falcon, go!" she shouted, and the mabari shot up the steps with a snarl that had made grown men piss themselves. "The rest of you, get your asses up there and help them!" Her entire body was coiled as tightly as Bianca's gears at full draw, but she held herself motionless, waiting for Anders to finish his work as Varric followed Aveline and Daisy upward.

Three flights later, they burst out into a charnel house. Corpses littered the marble paving of the terrace: human, elf, qunari, and every last one of them had bled crimson in a tide that obscured the pale stone. The battle was still raging: tight clusters of combat, with the qunari attacking the surviving mages with implacable savagery. A quick glance around confirmed that Sunshine was not among those standing, so Varric drew a bead on the first hornhead that fell into Bianca's sights, trying to ignore the sinking feeling. Maybe she hadn't left the Gallows. Maybe she was elsewhere.

Maybe.

He squeezed the trigger, and Bianca obligingly buried the bolt to the fletching between a set of broad shoulders, but the bastard had already dealt a mortal blow to the young mage he'd been attacking, and qunari and boy fell to the ground together.

_Damn it._

"With me!" He pivoted at Aveline's rallying shout, drawing and reloading all a matter of muscle memory, taking aim at a cluster of four qunari who were attacking an older elf. The mage had created some sort of barrier around himself that was holding them off, but it looked as though that was taking all that he had, leaving him unable to cast any offensive spells. Aveline charged, leading with her shield and knocking one of the attackers away, right into Falcon's waiting jaws. As woman and mabari reduced that one to so much dead meat, another stiffened suddenly, hands flying to his throat as he staggered back, blood fountaining from his ears, nose and eyes.

That would be Daisy doing her thing. Varric didn't look for the elf; her attack had opened up a clear shot to one of the two still on the attack. He narrowed his eyes, watching the sword arm rise and fall.

_Right … there._

Another squeeze of the trigger, another _twang!_ of the string, precisely machined gears flowing together smooth as silk, and feathers sprouted in the gap where the plates that shielded the arm met the cuirass. Draw, load, aim, squeeze: another bolt struck home in the bared throat as the target threw his head back in a bellow of pain that was cut short, and fell, leaving one standing.

Just as the elf's barrier gave a final shimmer and vanished.

_Shit._

Varric hurriedly reloaded and took aim, but pulled up as Devon charged past him at full speed, launching herself at the last qunari with a savage shout. She was in and out with the speed of a mongoose, blades flashing in the light of the moon overhead, and the qunari turned away from the elf, glancing contemptuously down at the deep cuts on each muscled forearm, took two steps toward his attacker and dropped like a stone.

Varric swiveled, Bianca up and ready, seeking targets, finding none. That was the good news. The bad news was that, besides them, the elven mage was the only thing standing.

Aveline stepped in, supporting the elf as his legs wavered beneath him. "First Enchanter Orsino, are you all right?"

Well, that explained why he'd had better luck holding off his attackers than the others, but Varric had a suspicion that it wasn't going to go over so well with Hawke.

Orsino nodded, stepping away from the Guard-Captain, looking around with a dazed and disbelieving expression. "I told them to run," he muttered, grief settling over his features like a shroud as he looked from one broken body to another.

"Why did you have them here at all with no protection?" Devon demanded in a fury, daggers still clenched in her fists.

"There was supposed to be a templar escort," the elf replied, shaking his head slowly, brow knitted as he tried to remember, anger sparking in his eyes as he went on. "They left us to pursue a group of qunari. We tried to retreat, but we were -"

Falcon's howl cut off his words and brought them all around to see the mabari pawing at one of the limp forms, dark hair and bloody robes all that was visible.

_Aw, crap. Sunshine …_

"No." The word was little more than a whisper, the blood draining from Devon's face as she took a faltering step forward, then another, and then both daggers clattered to the stone, and Hawke sprinted the rest of the distance, dropping to her knees beside Falcon.

"Beth?" Hawke cried in a choked voice as she scooped up her sister, turning her over gently and peering into the pale, still face. Varric _thought_ that he could discern some movement of the chest … but not much. Not enough by a long shot. "Beth, c'mon. Look at me. Open your eyes, Bethy, please!" Her hand searched frantically over the robe, came up bloody, and she stared at it with wild eyes. " _Anders!_ "

"Let me." Orsino's intervention saved Varric from having to decide whether it was worth the risk to warn Hawke about asking an apostate to use magic in front of the highest ranking mage in the Gallows. On the one hand, she'd dropped the daggers; on the other, he knew they weren't the only weapons the rogue carried, and in her present mood, she'd probably use her bare hands.

The mage knelt opposite Hawke as the rest of them gathered close. Aveline's features were set in grim sorrow, and tears streamed down Daisy's face. Anders looked no less distressed, but when Varric tilted his head, he nodded, and both of them turned their attention outward, ensuring that no surprise guests dropped in.

Not the most inspiring view, but he set his line of sight above the scattered corpses and blood-soaked stone, focusing on the points of ingress as Orsino began to murmur a healing spell, the words slipping by Varric's keen ears with the susurrant sound of wind blowing through leaves, never quite intelligible. Weird, that. One of these days, he was going to have to ask Blondie or Daisy how that worked. Or Sunshine, assuming she -

Behind him, a sudden, ragged intake of breath was quickly followed by a spate of coughing and Hawke's glad cry. Chancing a glance over his shoulder, Varric smiled at the sight of Devon fiercely hugging Bethany and sent a quick prayer of thanks toward the Maker, along with a promise to pay it forward by some suitably charitable acts in the future. For this favor, he might even set foot in the Chantry, because sure as shit, if Sunshine had died, Hawke would have -

A discreet cough from Anders brought him around, Bianca ready for action until he identified the newcomers. Better late than never, right?

Nah. He didn't think so, either.

"First Enchanter Orsino." The Knight-Commander, now at the head of a shiny brigade of templars, looked down on the group dispassionately. "You survive."

"No thanks to your templars," Orsino replied coldly as he stood, fire in green eyes clashing with ice in pale blue. "If not for Serah Hawke and her companions, both myself and Mage Hawke would have shared the fate of these others." He gestured around at the carnage.

"The templars' duty is to defend the citizens of Kirkwall, as is the mages'," Meredith replied, barely sparing the dead mages a glance. "They made good use of their curse, and drew the attention of these foul creatures from the innocents." All delivered in a tone of calm conviction, though it looked as though her subordinates might not be quite in step. A few were regarding the dead with expressions of dismay or shame, though nobody seemed inclined to contradict the Knight-Commander.

Devon helped Bethany stand, the younger Hawke leaning heavily against her sister, the paleness of her normally rosy cheeks and the bloody robe with the hole in the front a reminder of how damn close a call it had been.

"I thought it was the duty of the templars to protect the mages?" Hawke challenged Meredith. To all outward appearances, she was calm, her expression dispassionate, but anybody who knew Hawke knew that was when she was at her most dangerous. Meredith didn't seem to recognize that, but a couple of her subordinates did, judging from the sudden apprehension on their faces, and Varric figured that more than a few Gallows customers were going to find their supplemental lyrium supply cut off for the next month or two.

"We've no time to waste talking," Meredith said dismissively. "We must strike back before it is too late."

"And who will lead us in this battle?" Orsino demanded, glaring at her. "You?"

The temperature dropped twenty degrees or so. "I will fight to defend this city as I have always done!" she countered haughtily.

"To control it, you mean!" he snarled. "Nearly a score of my charges perished here while you were off posturing! I will not toss any more lives into the flames simply to feed your vanity!"

Meredith's eyes narrowed, and the chill deepened to the point that frostbite seemed imminent, but Varric's attention was on Hawke. With Bethany safe and the Tome of Koslun gone, he wouldn't have been surprised to see her walk away and leave Kirkwall to the qunari, maybe use the confusion to spirit her sister away from the templars.

Blue-green eyes flicked between Orsino and Meredith, her lip curling in disdain. "As amusing as this little pissing match is, you might want to give some thought to fighting the qunari instead of each other." She glanced briefly at Bethany. "Varric, I want you to take Beth and -"

"No." The refusal came from Sunshine, who shook her head. "I'm not leaving."

Unsurprisingly, Devon was not pleased by this statement. "Don't argue with me, Beth," she growled. "You're in no condition to -"

"I'm not arguing." Sunshine stepped away from her sister's support and stood alone, her expression determined. "This is as much my fight as it is yours, and I am not going to run from it."

Hawke glared at her for a long moment, but Sunshine refused to wilt, and at last, Devon let her breath out in a frustrated hiss, dragging the bloody fingers of one hand through her hair. "All right, but stay in back, or I swear I'll tie you up and stick you in the first closet I find." She jerked her head toward the staircase that led upward. "My people, let's move."

She had retrieved her daggers, and they were halfway to the stairs before Meredith recovered from her astonishment sufficiently to speak up. "You are not authorized to remove a mage from templar supervision!" she barked.

"Then you might want to stop wasting time talking and follow me," Hawke called over her shoulder without looking back or slowing. "We're going to kill qunari."

"Is she proposing to lead us?" Varric heard Meredith fuming behind him. "She's not even of this city!"

"Neither am I," Orsino countered. "Nor were most of those who died here, but you seem to have had no objections to our fighting to defend Kirkwall."

A long silence, then the clatter of multiple suits of armor creaking into motion. Moments later, Meredith strode past Varric purposefully.

"Do you have a plan?" she demanded as her long legs brought her alongside Devon.

"Not until I see what we're up against," Hawke replied with a shrug. "I generally make it up as I go along."

The Knight-Commander's expression grew thunderous. "That is not sound military doctrine!" she huffed.

"And leaving mages to be slaughtered is?" Devon didn't bother to try to hide her disgust. "Lucky for us all, I'm not military, or I'd be recommending you for a court-martial for dereliction of duty."

Meredith's fair complexion abruptly went scarlet, but Hawke's attention had shifted forward, and she lifted one hand in a gesture that brought the rest of them to a stop. Most of the rest of them, anyway. A bit of clatter from the rear announced that some of the templars had been watching Meredith. Hawke sent a deathglare over one shoulder before creeping forward and peering around a corner.

They actually hadn't run into any more qunari since they'd left the slaughter on the terrace below, and Varric had begun to hope that their numbers had been whittled down enough that they'd decided to call it quits (hey, nobody could say that Andvar and Ilsa Tethric's baby boy wasn't an optimist), but the look on Hawke's face as she ghosted back to them put that notion to bed.

"Looks like they're digging in," she reported grimly. "There's about twenty of them guarding the main doors."

"There a back way?" Varric asked, but she shook her head.

"You and I might be able to sneak in, but none of the others could make it."

"Then we attack them," Meredith spoke up confidently.

"Twenty qunari are enough to make mincemeat of everyone here," Devon replied flatly, catching Varric's eye and giving a slight shake of her head that likely meant that she was nearly out of the poison that had done such a neat job of evening the odds on the run over. "If we had more mages, we'd have a better chance … oh, wait: we did. They're dead." She glowered again at the Knight-Commander, and Varric could see her giving serious consideration to just taking Bethany and leaving.

"A diversion, then?" Orsino suggested.

Hawke looked dubious. "They're not easy to distract."

He offered her a thin smile. "I believe that I can get their attention."

* * *

In a night that had provided no shortage of memorable moments, seeing the First Enchanter with his robes hiked up past his knees, running like a nug through Dust Town with a dozen or so smoldering qunari howling on his heels was definitely going high on Varric's list of things to jot down for future artistic embellishment when he got back to the Hanged Man.

Assuming he survived, that is.

As the rest of them left the various nooks and alleys where they had concealed themselves, Bethany looked worriedly in the direction that Orsino and his admirers had disappeared. "If they catch him -"

"Then we'd better get inside so that we don't waste the chance he gave us," Devon told her sister gently, shooting the Knight-Commander and her templars another look of scathing contempt. "Nice to see there's somebody in the Gallows with balls."

"You said yourself that we stood no chance against so many!" Meredith protested in outrage.

"Didn't stop him, did it?" Hawke countered, stalking toward the steps that led up to the Keep. For a moment, Varric thought that the Knight-Commander might actually draw steel on the Fereldan, so murderous was the look that she shot in Devon's wake. Varric kept a wary eye on Meredith as he followed Hawke, his finger resting on Bianca's trigger.

"Are you _trying_ to goad her into attacking you?" Aveline was demanding of the rogue in a heated undertone.

"Nope," Hawke replied, her lips continuing to move in silence: _Three … two … one …_

"We should divide our forces and attack them from different directions," Meredith spoke up authoritatively. "We will go around to the servants' entrance and come in that way." Without waiting for a response, the Knight-Commander led the templars out of sight around the Keep.

"That was what I was trying to do," Hawke said smugly. "She's not going to attack me; not as long as she can get us to do the hard work while she gets the credit."

"Until she gets you killed, too!" Bethany whispered tearfully. "Devon, they're gone, they can't stop us! I'll go, just come with me, please! Don't do this!"

"Can't go," Devon replied. "Not after Orsino took that risk to draw off the guards." She paused, then added with a wink, "Besides, I'm not that easy to kill, Beths. You know that." The marble flagstones outside the doors were littered with the charred and smoking corpses of the guards who hadn't survived Orsino's fireball. Devon picked her way around them, paused at the great doors, listening briefly, then shrugged, threw them open and darted in, blades ready. A handful of qunari were lingering in the massive vestibule; the group made relatively short work of them, now that Daisy and Blondie didn't have to keep their magic under wraps.

As the last hornhead was falling, Aveline dove down the steps toward the barracks, her face a mask of dread. The rest of them kept watch above; a minute or so later, she was back, relief warring with worry in her expression.

"No one there," she reported, "and it doesn't look as though there was a fight. Hopefully, they were all out in the city when the Keep was attacked."

"What's the plan, Hawke?" Varric wanted to know as they approached the doors of the great hall.

"Ideally?" Devon shrugged. "Talk, if the Arishok will listen." She didn't look particularly hopeful, however. "I'm going to have to get that damn book back, convince him to let me try," she muttered, anger sparking in her eyes. "It's the only thing that's going to stop this. _Damn_ her!"

No need to ask who she was talking about, but if anyone could track down Rivaini, it was Hawke. "Deal me in," Varric told her.

"And me," Aveline said grimly. _That_ was going to be a lively reunion. And loud.

"You're going to find Isabella?" Merrill asked. "Oh, I'll come, too, except …" Worry touched her delicate features. 'Hawke, you're not going to hurt her, are you?"

"I don't think she can be hurt, Merrill," Devon replied flatly, a bitter light in her eyes. "She doesn't give a damn about anybody but herself."

"But that's not true, Hawke," Daisy protested. "She cares about you; I know she does!"

"Then why isn't she here?" Bethany asked, an anger that was seldom seen touching her cheeks with color. "Why did she leave Devon to clean up her mess?"

"Enough," Hawke said wearily when Daisy looked ready to burst into tears. "Let's deal with what's in front of us." She stepped up to the wide double doors; behind them, the agitated murmurings of a crowd could be heard.

"Sounds like most of them are still alive," she remarked, grasping the handle as a rumbling voice rose above the rest.

"Here is your Viscount!" The Arishok's roar was punctuated with screams and shouts. Hawke hurriedly opened the door and led the way inside. The Arishok and his warriors stood atop the steps in front of the Viscount's throne; below, crowded together in the gallery, were the nobility of Kirkwall, many of whom were scrambling to get out of the way of an object that was rolling along the burgundy carpet, alternating flashes of pale and red all that could be made out until it fetched up against Hawke's foot and they all found themselves staring down into the sightless eyes of Viscount Dumar as his circlet rolled past and into the vestibule.

_Well, crap._ Granted, the man had been nothing more than Meredith's lackey, from all reports, but this didn't bode well for peaceful negotiations.

Qunari weren't small to begin with, and the Arishok was half a head taller than his subordinates, with the massive, curling horns adding another foot. Deep-set eyes swept contemptuously over the crowd, coming to rest on them, and Varric held his breath. There were a lot more than twenty qunari in the hall, and – unsurprisingly – there was no sign of Meredith and her templars.

" _Shanedan_ , Hawke," he rumbled. "I expected you."

The words were not followed by an immediate attack, but Varric did not allow himself to relax.

"I do hate being predictable," Hawke drawled, stepping forward. "But given the circumstances, it seemed warranted." She glanced around at the collected nobility. They looked back with a near-pathetic hope, considering that a good many of them had spent the past three years scorning the Fereldan 'pretender'. " _Shanedan_ , Arishok," she said, inclining her head slightly. "I have come to ask that you end this."

The qunari's features might have been carved from stone. " _Maraas toh ebra-shok_ ," he intoned. "None of these is worth your effort, Hawke. You alone are _basalit-an_."

"I know, but what can I do?" Hawke replied with a shrug. "I've already invited half of them to a ball to celebrate Summerday and the caterer won't refund my deposit. You know how it is."

"I do not," he disagreed with his usual blindness to anything remotely resembling humor. He lumbered down the steps to meet her; the top of her head barely reached the center of his chest, but she faced him with no sign of fear. "This is what respect looks like, _bas_!" he announced to the nobles. "Some of you will never earn it!"

"I think you have their attention," Devon told him. "There's no need to -"

"There is every need," he disagreed. "Look at them!" He threw a massive hand toward the onlookers, who shrank back fearfully. "Like fat _dathrasi_ , they feed and feed, and complain only when their meal is interrupted. They do not look up. They do not see that the grass is bare. All they leave in their wake is misery. They are blind. I _will_ make them see!"

"The other cities will come to Kirkwall's aid," Hawke warned him, "and the other nations will assist the Free Marches. You're going to start a war with the south."

"Then there will be war!" The Arishok's voice rose to a shout, and one woman fainted. "I am denied Par Vollen until the Tome of Koslun is found, but I can no longer ignore the disease of this society festering everywhere I look." He turned away from Devon, pacing with an agitation that Varric had never seen him display and a barely-leashed expression that sent a chill down the dwarf's spine. That would be a whole lot of crazy, if he actually tipped over the edge. "If I am to remain here, I _will_ bring the Qun to this place! These _kabethari_ will become _viddathari_ , or they will die!"

"I'll find the Tome!" Devon promised him. "You have my word; just give me two weeks!"

"I have waited long enough!" The Arishok spun back to Hawke, towering over her, but she did not flinch. "For four years, I have searched and waited," he thundered. "Tell me, Hawke: how do you propose to find it in a fraction of that time?"

"I believe I can answer that."

The reply did not come from Devon, but from the direction of the doorway behind them. Every eye turned, Varric's included, though he had recognized the voice at once.

_Well, I'll be damned._ He might get to write a happy ending for this one, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got hung up on this chapter originally over POV. I intended for it to be Aveline, but it was refusing to flow. Then stuff happened, and everything got set aside for a while, until Inquisition brought the muse out of hibernation and at the same time dropped Varric's commentary squarely in the middle of the qunari attack. Still took some time to get done, as my primary focus is on finishing 'Moments In Time' & the random plot bunnies insist on popping up to distract me on occasion.
> 
> As I've mentioned before, this one will (thankfully) be much shorter than MIT, but that one will still be the first one completed (and yes, the end is now in sight). I doubt there will be another update to this story before MIT is done, but I do have this one planned out to the end and beyond. Schedule and muses permitting, it should be accomplished without further lengthy interruptions.


End file.
